


Red Knight, Black Bishop

by axefaire, Vexify (labelleplume)



Series: Red Knight, Black Bishop Collection [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Betaed, Black Eagles Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Black Eagles Sylvain Jose Gautier, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, POV Ferdinand von Aegir, POV Hubert von Vestra, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 71,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26275417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axefaire/pseuds/axefaire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/labelleplume/pseuds/Vexify
Summary: Hubert worked with single-minded dedication to achieve Edelgard's dream: overthrow the treacherous Church of Seiros and establish a new order over Fodlan. But he did not prepare for the arrival of a new professor at Garreg Mach, one with mysterious origins and power beyond compare. He also did not expect Edelgard to fall in love.This sprawling slow burn traces the entirety of Hubert and Ferdinand's relationship as classmates, rivals, friends, and eventually, lovers. We watch as Edelgard's own relationship with Byleth influences and changes Hubert and Ferdinand's views of trust and love. We follow the rise of Edelgard's imperial dreams and Byleth's role in making them a reality.Ongoing, updates biweekly on Tuesdays. Next update: 3/9/21
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Red Knight, Black Bishop Collection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2148189
Comments: 51
Kudos: 122





	1. Great Tree Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vexify (labelleplume)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/labelleplume/gifts).



The Great Tree Moon had brought nothing but stress into Hubert’s life. First, Edelgard had been sent off on a mission without him. Hubert spent all week resisting the urge to chew at his nails. Then Edelgard returned with mercenaries in tow. Jeralt the Blade Breaker and his eerily serene daughter Byleth, what a pair they made. And to make matters worse, Byleth was promoted to Professor of the Black Eagles, despite having no qualifications for the post. Hubert had spent many fruitless nights pouring over the Professor’s abilities, her history, the explanation for her eternally placid expression. 

Tonight was no different. Hubert skimmed the latest missive from Remire Village. The spy confirmed what he already suspected. Byleth was a well-regarded mercenary. She was the daughter of and worked alongside a former Knight of Seiros, Jeralt the Blade Breaker. Her mother was dead and the circumstances of her birth unclear. Hubert threw the letter aside and pinched the bridge of his nose. No matter how much he probed, Byleth remained largely a mystery to him. Her intentions, her allegiances, her beliefs were all unknown. 

Hubert looked across the desk to Edelgard. The Imperial Princess was frowning slightly as she penned a letter, pausing thoughtfully before a decisive stroke. Her hair was pulled back from her face and it made her look strangely vulnerable. Watching her, Hubert felt a painful twinge in his chest. He rose to his feet. 

“Lady Edelgard,” he said. “I must express my unease about our new professor.” 

Edelgard looked up from her letter. “Not this again, Hubert,” she said. 

“We know nothing about this woman,” Hubert pressed on, “except that Rhea adores her and that she can use a sword.”

“She dove in front of an axe for me,” Edelgard said. “Surely that speaks to her character.” 

“That could have been a ploy to gain your trust,” Hubert said. “One that seems to have worked.” 

Edelgard glared for a beat, then softened. “I feel drawn to her,” she said, resting her hand on her cheek. “When I fought alongside her against those bandits, I, we felt so powerful. We fought as one without having to exchange a word. And she has such a commanding presence. She has the potential to be a great leader.” 

It was Hubert’s turn to frown. Had the Professor caused Edelgard to lose all sight of their goals? “Lady Edelgard, I am focused on your future as a leader, not the Professor’s.”

“What is a leader without her advisors?” Edelgard said. She smiled. “Who else will tell me that I’m doing something wrong?” 

Hubert bowed. “Forgive me, Lady Edelgard, it was not my intent to criticize — ”

“You know I welcome your opinion, regardless of what it is,” Edelgard interrupted. “To return to my earlier point, I think the Professor would be a valuable ally. I wish to befriend her.” 

“Very well, Lady Edelgard,” Hubert said. “I will revise our plans to account for this new factor. But I ask, in exchange for my acquiescence, that you exercise caution with the Professor.”

Edelgard smiled again. The Professor certainly put her in a good mood. 

“Of course, Hubert,” she said. She returned to the letter before her. “Good night.” 

Dismissed, Hubert gathered his papers and retreated to his own dormitory. He could not disregard his concerns about Byleth, but he would, for the time being, stop voicing them. 

Byleth proved herself to be an effective teacher within a few days of her tenure. She could teach the basics of a broad range of topics, from heavy armor to healing magic, and fielded the Black Eagles’ constant barrage of questions with ease. Most impressive, in Hubert’s eyes, was her patience in the face of even the most irritating students. 

“I know the answer! Call on me, Ferdinand von Aegir!” 

Hubert scowled and hunched further over his textbook. That fool had said the same to every question Byleth had posed. If Byleth was bothered by this, she did not express it. She simply smiled and motioned for Ferdinand to lower his hand. He did not. 

“Anyone else have a guess?” Byleth asked, raising her eyebrows. 

Ferdinand huffed loudly. Hubert rolled his eyes and turned in his chair. 

“Must you make a spectacle of yourself?” Hubert hissed to Ferdinand across the desk. “She’s made it clear she doesn’t want to hear from you.” 

Ferdinand ignored him and sat up straighter in his seat, arm still raised. 

“Yes, Edelgard,” Byleth said. 

Hubert turned back in his chair, ears perked for Edelgard’s response. 

“In that situation, I would send a mounted unit ahead,” Edelgard said. 

Byleth nodded and returned to lecturing, drawing a careful diagram on the board. Ferdinand made a big show of crossing his arms. 

“I knew that,” he muttered into his chest. 

Hubert threw a withering glance over his shoulder. He was at wit’s end with Ferdinand von Aegir, the Prime Minister’s brat. The boy was a nuisance who thought that picking up a lance and riding a horse made him Edelgard’s peer. No, her rival! The very thought set Hubert’s teeth on edge. He would need to remind Ferdinand of his place. This foolish one-sided rivalry had to be stopped. 

A few days later, Hubert cornered Ferdinand in the dining hall. He had not planned on delivering a verbal lashing today, but he could not help but overhear Ferdinand describing his latest plot to one-up Edelgard. He slunk up behind Ferdinand and slipped a gloved hand onto his shoulder. He suppressed a smirk as the contact made Ferdinand jump. 

“Hubert! I’ve told you countless times not to sneak up on me,” Ferdinand said, whirling around. 

“And I’ve told you countless times that you are not Lady Edelgard’s rival” Hubert said, “yet you continue to waste your efforts concocting ridiculous plans in an attempt to best her.” Hubert leaned forward, looming over the shorter boy. “You will never best her.”

Ferdinand did not seem intimidated. Instead, he drew himself up to full height and crossed his arms. It was, perhaps, meant to look resolute, but the pout only served to make Ferdinand appear younger than he was. 

“If I am to be an effective advisor to Edelgard, I must surpass her,” Ferdinand said. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand that. You are too content to follow her around like a puppy. Some advisor you are!” 

Hubert scowled at the comparison. A puppy! Did Ferdinand really not understand what the role of the Minister of the Imperial Household was? He had underestimated the younger boy’s foolishness. 

“You are a child,” Hubert said finally, “play-acting at nobility. You will never understand true devotion, what it means to serve the Imperial Princess. I see that now.”

Ferdinand scoffed and opened his mouth to retort, but Hubert did not give him an opportunity. Turning on his heel, Hubert stalked out of the dining hall, ignoring the stares of the students who had overheard the tiff. 

That evening, in the quiet of his dormitory, Hubert began his nightly ministrations. He began by loosening the fingertip of each glove he wore, gently working his fingers free of the fabric. Pulling off the gloves, he laid them carefully on his vanity. He stared at his hands; they were so clearly those of a mage, slender and soft, but darkening at the fingertips. Dark magic had so quickly left its mark on Hubert. He rubbed a floral salve into the ashen skin. It could not undo the damage, but it could slow its progression. Hubert was not one for such vanities, but the salve had been a gift from Edelgard.

“I feel bad,” Edelgard had said by way of explanation, “seeing your skin changed like this for my ends.” 

Hubert had shook his head. “It is a minute sacrifice,” he had said, “and one I am happy to make to see your dreams become a reality.” 

But Edelgard had insisted and so the salve became part of Hubert’s evening ritual. He did not mind it. The salve’s lavender aroma had a calming effect that he welcomed. And if it left his hands feeling particularly supple, who was he to complain? Hubert caught his left hand in his right, turning it over to observe the palm. His mind wandered to his earlier argument with Ferdinand. 

Now there was someone who did not understand sacrifice. Ferdinand would never give up a part of himself for Edelgard. The boy could not even part with foolish notions of competition for the sake of serving his Imperial Princess. He would not be a good ally in what was to come, Hubert decided. He was far too concerned with his own standing to be useful to them.

Hubert moved on to mentally cataloguing the rest of the Black Eagles. Could any of his classmates serve a role in Edelgard’s future? 

The mock battle the following morning was off to a precipitous start. Byleth had chosen five of them to fight, and Hubert had groaned at his bad luck when Ferdinand somehow made the cut. And, of course, his fears were well-founded. Within moments of the battle beginning, Ferdinand had crowed his name and charged ahead thoughtlessly. 

“Back him up!” Byleth had yelled and Hubert left Edelgard’s side to follow. 

Seeing an arrow whizzing towards him, Hubert grabbed Ferdinand by the back of his uniform and yanked. Ferdinand fell squarely onto Hubert and the two of them tumbled into a nearby bush.

“What is the meaning of this?” Ferdinand spluttered as he began to disentangle himself from Hubert.

“You’ll get us eliminated before the battle has even begun,” Hubert hissed. 

He grabbed Ferdinand by the collar and pulled him down closer as another volley of arrows shot overhead. 

“It is too risky for us to take on both Ashe and Ignatz at once,” Hubert said. “Let us focus on Ashe. I will draw his fire, providing an opportunity for you to strike.” 

Ferdinand frowned. “I see no need for such tactics,” he said, grasping his lance for firmly. “I will charge head Ashe head on. If I am fast enough, he cannot retaliate with his bow. You handle Ignatz.” 

Grasping Ferdinand’s wrist to prevent him from running off, Hubert shook his head. “That is far too risky a plan. There is no guarantee that you can make it.” 

“I know I can make it,” Ferdinand said, obstinate as ever. 

He leapt to his feet and made to run out from the cover. But before he could take a step, Hubert grabbed at his uniform once again and roughly pulled him down. Ferdinand fell back with an indignant cry. 

“What is the matter with you?” he demanded. “Are you trying to sabotage me?”

“We have to win this battle. And I am not about to let you risk it all for the sake of gallantry.”

“It is not gallantry. My strategy will ensure we incapacitate both archers at once!”

Hubert glared at Ferdinand, who met his gaze with equal vitriol. The plan was not necessarily a bad one, Hubert admitted to himself, but it would require Ferdinand actually landing the hit. If Ferdinand missed, they would be without cover and at the mercy of the archers who were drawing ever closer. Hubert had too little faith in his classmate to take such a bet.

“Allow me to demonstrate!” 

A stentorian cry echoed over the battlefield. A steel blade flashed in the sunlight. The Professor stood over an incapacitated Ashe. She glowered at Hubert and Ferdinand.  
“Quit cowering in the bushes and get back out there,” she ordered. “Use flanking maneuver B to deal with Ignatz. And quit dallying!”

As quick as she appeared, she was gone. 

“The new Professor is quite capable,” Ferdinand said, almost too low for Hubert to hear. Then, louder, “You heard her. Let’s go!”

Moving in unison now, the pair executed the maneuver with ease. Ferdinand deftly dodged an arrow and took a fierce swipe at Ignatz. The archer stumbled backwards with a cry. Before he could right himself, Hubert burst out from the left, miasma crackling at his fingertips. A primal growl ripped from his throat as he volleyed bursts of black magic. He would crush this insignificant bug, for Lady Edelgard! 

That day, Byleth proved herself more than capable to teach the Black Eagles. They easily won the mock battle. The night of revelry that followed was not to Hubert’s taste, but he hovered at the edges of the dining hall, watching his classmates celebrate. Edelgard approached him, two goblets in hand. 

“You fought well today, Hubert,” she said, pressing a drink into Hubert’s hand. “You should celebrate.” 

Hubert accepted the goblet, raising it slightly to Edelgard. “I will drink to your capable victory.” 

Edelgard turned to look back over the hall, her eyes wandering to where Byleth stood. “It is less my victory and more the Professor’s,” Edelgard admitted. “Her command guided us to success.” 

Hubert followed her gaze. Byleth looked blank, if slightly amused, as she watched Caspar act out highlights from the mock battle, threatening to knock over the silverware. It was not often that Hubert chose to lie to Edelgard. But he could tell that the Imperial Princess had developed a blind spot when it came to the Professor, one that had only grown since their success in the mock battle. It would not do to keep arguing with her about trust. If Edelgard had her heart set on this mercenary, there was little Hubert could do to dissuade her. But even if he did not voice his concerns, he would continue his investigation of the Professor. He would learn her weaknesses. He would unearth the details of her past. And he would be ready. If the Professor so much as breathed a word of sedition, Hubert would be ready to strike her down. 

“The new professor seems capable,” Hubert said at last. “She would make a valuable ally indeed.” 

Edelgard smiled. “I am relieved that you finally agree. I knew that seeing the Professor in battle would convince you.” 

“She is a force to be reckoned with. Now we only need to win her over to our cause.” 

Edelgard sipped from her goblet before fixing Hubert with a wry stare. “Speaking of forces to be reckoned with, you and Ferdinand made quite the pair on the battlefield.” 

Hubert’s lip curled at the thought of the annoying younger man. “He nearly ruined everything.”

“He was effective under the Professor’s guidance,” Edelgard pointed out. “You would do well not to underestimate him.” 

Hubert bowed as she walked away. He would take her command to heart, though it hardly seemed possible to underestimate the von Aegir brat. Besides, he had larger problems than Ferdinand’s capabilities. He watched as Edelgard slid into her seat beside Byleth, smiling broadly. It would seem the Imperial Princess only had eyes for her professor, a concerning development. How had Byleth so quickly wormed her way into Edelgard’s good graces? 

A loud crash jolted Hubert from his thoughts. Caspar had managed to knock over three goblets and an amphora of wine in his description of Byleth’s exploits during the mock battle. The noise made Bernadetta, who had inched out of her shell over the course of the evening, retreat, trembling, to the far corner of the hall. Linhardt scolded Caspar, jumping out of the way of the deluge of wine. Byleth and Edelgard began to sop up the mess, talking all the time. Dorothea’s piercing laugh rose above the din as she and Petra rushed to help. If Caspar was remotely embarrassed by the scene he had caused, he did not show it. 

Hubert drained his glass and stalked out of the dining hall. He had had his fill of his classmates for the night.


	2. Harpstring Moon

Ferdinand grinned toothily at his reflection in the mirror. He had woken up that morning to a throbbing headache and a parched mouth, the price of last night’s celebrations. But he did not care. He had fought like a true noble and had partied like one too. What a way to ring in his eighteenth birthday!

His compatriots had forgotten the occasion, save for Bernadetta. But this slight did not bother Ferdinand in the slightest. He could hardly blame the Black Eagles for being distracted by the mock battle and the Professor’s first demonstration of her capabilities. 

“I am Ferdinand von Aegir,” he said to his reflection, running a comb through his hair.

His good mood had only been improved by the fact that Edelgard noticed his performance. After the mock battle, she stopped to congratulate him. 

“You’re quite good with a lance,” she said. “I was impressed by how quickly you dispatched Ignatz.” 

“Thank you for noticing!” Ferdinand exclaimed. “I might soon outshine you on the battlefield.” 

Edelgard did not take Ferdinand’s bait. She rarely did. She merely smiled and breezed past him to hug Dorothea instead. But still, she had complimented him and on so noble a skill as lance-wielding! 

That afternoon, Ferdinand managed to cajole Bernadetta into leaving her room for some tea. It required, of course, that he procure some delicate tea cakes that Bernadetta was partial to. 

“Th-thank you, Ferdinand,” Bernadetta said, her hand trembling slightly as she raised her teacup to her lips. “The mint complements the tea cakes well.” 

“Your palate, as usual, is exquisite,” Ferdinand said, smiling genially over his own teacup. 

Bernadetta shrugged off the complement and looked around the courtyard fearfully. Truly, being in the outdoors did not sit well with her. She must, Ferdinand reflected, really like the tea cakes. Somehow, Bernadetta had become his first and only friend at Garreg Mach. Ever since Ferdinand put two and two together — the daughter of Count Varley was the mysterious noblewoman he had briefly been arranged to marry — he had been determined to win her over. 

It was not that Ferdinand wanted to pursue an engagement. Courting someone as shy and reclusive as Bernadetta did not interest Ferdinand. Besides, while he had been unsure when his parents suggested an arranged marriage, he was now certain that women did not pique his romantic interests. Marrying a woman and producing heirs was, perhaps, the only aspect of nobility he shied away from. It reminded him far too much of the Duke Aegir and his ilk. 

But Bernadetta herself delighted Ferdinand. She was quite sweet on the rare occasions that he could coax her out of her shell. And while she did not love tea like Ferdinand did, she would indulge in afternoon teatime provided the appropriate snacks were available. 

“You’re staring at me,” Bernadetta pointed out, suddenly shaking. “Are you still mad about me hurting your wrist? Was this a plot to get me out of my room? Have you poisoned the tea?” 

Ferdinand rushed to stop this calamitous line of thought. It was best to keep Bernadetta calm before she became a whirlwind of anxiety. 

“The tea is fine and I am absolutely not mad,” Ferdinand said. “I will even taste your tea to prove it.” 

Bernadetta watched as Ferdinand took two long, careful sips from her teacup before relaxing. 

“Then why were you staring?” she asked. 

“I was merely lost in thought,” Ferdinand said. “We are set to receive a new mission this month. Rumor has it, we will dispatch the bandits that attached Edelgard, Claude, and Dimitri.” 

“Bandits!” Bernadetta nearly shrieked. “I can’t fight bandits! That’s terrifying! They could hurt me!” 

Before Ferdinand could quell her fears, Bernadetta leaped up from the table and sprinted back towards her room. She did not, however, forget to snatch up the tea cakes before she left. Ferdinand rubbed his temples and set about clearing the table. Despite the ignominious end, this was one of the better teatimes between the two of them. 

The rumors turned out to be true. At the end of the Harpstring Moon, the Black Eagles would track and battle Kostas and his brigands. Ferdinand trained tirelessly. He spent hours at the training grounds, sparring with anyone who would have him. He trailed after Byleth in the halls, asking questions about tactics and strategies. He rose before the break of dawn to ride and worked until the lonely hours of the night to brush and feed the horses. 

And yet, it was not enough. Ferdinand lay in bed, staring at his ceiling, and cringed as he recalled a particularly embarrassing encounter with Byleth. He had been so determined to fight off a Demonic Beast. After all, Edelgard had defeated one singlehandedly the other day. But instead, he made a fool of himself. Ferdinand winced as he shifted in bed, his ribs still bruised from the fight. He had been lucky to escape with his life. If the Professor had not been there, Ferdinand would have met his end. Ferdinand sighed loudly. At least, he thought, Edelgard had not seen or heard word of it. The Professor was mercifully discreet. 

“There is nothing to be done. I must redouble my efforts!” Ferdinand leapt to his feet with newfound vigor. 

He ignored the painful twinge in his chest at the action. He would have to push through the pain and prove himself in this month’s mission. Bursting out of his dormitory, Ferdinand pivoted right to knock on Caspar’s door and ran straight into Hubert. 

“Hubert! You have the uncanny ability to appear where I least expect you,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

“Watch where you are going,” Hubert hissed and strode away. 

“Are you off to see Edelgard? Ask her if she will spar with me!” Ferdinand called after him. 

Hubert did not respond. But Caspar emerged from his dormitory and crashed into the hallway. 

“Did I hear you’re looking for a sparring partner?” he asked, grinning like a madman. 

“Ah, Caspar, just the man I was hoping to see,” Ferdinand said. “Let us head to the training grounds immediately.” 

They set off, chatting loudly about the newest axe trick that Caspar had learned. Ferdinand steeled himself for the fight. He was determined to train harder and improve faster than anyone had before — even Edelgard.

The mission in Zanado was so unlike any mock battle that Ferdinand had ever been in. The bandits were brutal. They came in waves, first a hail of arrows and then a rush of swords. Their weapons glinted menacingly in the stark sunlight. The heat beat down mercilessly on the canyon walls. Ferdinand tightened his grip on his lance as a bead of sweat ran down his back. 

A yell pierced the air. Ferdinand whipped around and brought his lance up just in the nick of time, preventing a Fighter from embedding an axe in his neck. He deflected the axe away and leapt back. 

“You cannot defeat me, rogue,” Ferdinand spat. “I am Ferdinand von Aegir!” 

With a cry, Ferdinand leveled his lance at the villain and took a vicious swipe at his chest. The man groaned in pain and stumbled backwards, blood streaming freely from the gash in his armor. But the man was not deterred. He steadied himself and bared his teeth at Ferdinand, raising his axe once more. There, an opening! If Ferdinand was quick, he could strike the man once and defeat him. But Ferdinand hesitated. To defeat him would mean to kill him. And he had never killed before. 

The man struck before Ferdinand could make a decision, bringing the full force of the axe down onto Ferdinand’s chest. Ferdinand flew backwards, pain ricocheting across his torso. The blow knocked the air out of his lungs, but the armor prevented any grievous injury. Gasping for air, Ferdinand staggered to his feet. His mind was made up. He would have to kill this man. It was a matter of his own survival and, more importantly, a matter of noble obligation. Ferdinand leapt forward, deftly dodged a swipe of the axe, and rammed his lance into the Fighter’s neck. The Fighter fell to his knees before collapsing. Ferdinand panted heavily as he pulled his lance free of the Fighter’s body. The weapon came loose with a sickening squelch. A rising sense of horror stirred in Ferdinand’s stomach as he stared at the bloody mess before him but he forced it down. With some difficulty, he tore his gaze away from the corpse and surveyed the battlefield. 

Nearby, Bernadetta was nocking and loosing arrows in a frenzy. She made a surprised squeal every time her arrow found its mark. Her pace was punishingly fast. To his right, Ferdinand could make out Linhardt stooping to heal a fresh wound on Caspar’s leg. Caspar seemed unbothered by the gash, yelling encouragements to his classmates as Linhardt fought to keep him steady. 

At the frontlines, Byleth and Edelgard were a maelstrom of sword and axe. They moved in unison, one step forward, a strike, a twirl, and dash. Ferdinand watched their savage dance in awe. To think, they could fight, could move like this? In one fluid movement, Edelgard embedded her axe into the enemy Brigand’s shoulder and Byleth ran him through with her iron sword. The man made no noise as he hit the ground. 

After the battle in Zanado, Ferdinand stayed in bed for three days. He did not tend to the horses in the stables. He did not take afternoon tea. He did not attend classes. He did not pick up a lance. 

It was not behavior becoming of a noble, Ferdinand knew, but he could not help himself. Every time he set foot outside his door, he was assailed by memories of the battle. He could not stop thinking about the Fighter, the awful gurgle that escaped his throat, the way his fingers had twitched as he lay dying. The image was emblazoned on the inside of his eyelids. How could he learn new fighting techniques with a death rattle echoing in his ears? How could he spar with a classmate with a corpse laid at his feet? How could he touch a lance stained red with another man’s blood? 

He could not. And so, he stayed in bed. 

Bernadetta was the first to notice. How she managed that when she could barely leave her room, Ferdinand did not know. But his tremulous friend left parcels with food and tiny crocheted flowers outside his door. She did not attempt to coax him outside or order him to class. If anyone understood the need to barricade oneself in one’s dormitory, it was Bernadetta. 

“The Professor asked you to tea this afternoon,” she said on the fourth morning, voice thin but clear through the heavy wooden door. 

“I’m afraid I’m not accepting any invitations at this time,” Ferdinand said. “I have taken ill.”

“I- It- It didn’t really sound like a request.” 

Ferdinand groaned into his pillow. The thought of rising, dressing, and chatting genially over tea was, for once in his life, unbearable. His limbs were leaden. His bedsheets ensnared him. The effort it would take to get out of bed alone was inhuman. 

“I don’t think you can hide from the Professor,” Bernadetta continued. “She wouldn’t let me stay in my room all day either.” 

There was nothing to be done. Byleth was not someone Ferdinand could say no to. If he tried to skip this tea, Byleth would likely storm into his dormitory and demand his participation. And the last thing Ferdinand needed was someone seeing his room. It was in a state — clothes strewn over furniture, papers scattered across the floor, dirty dishes piled in a corner. Definitely not the noble standard.

“I suppose I have no choice,” Ferdinand said. 

It took him the entire morning to get ready. He crawled out of bed at a slovenly pace, each simple motion leaving him exhausted. He donned his uniform. It was wrinkled from its time on the floor, but he could not bring himself to iron it. His cravat was nowhere to be found. He dragged his fingers through his lank, unwashed hair. He was far from his typical, immaculately groomed self. But it would have to do. 

The descent to the courtyard was excruciating. The smile he forced on his face as he sat across Byleth was even more so. 

“Good day, Professor,” he murmured. 

“Ferdinand, it’s been too long,” Byleth replied. “Thank you for joining me.”

Ferdinand nodded. How long would he have to play along? His head was already throbbing. His limbs ached. He just wanted to go back to bed. 

“This is a Southern Fruit Blend,” Byleth continued, filling their cups. “I have it on good authority that this is your favorite.”

Ferdinand nodded again. He took a sip. He could feel his professor’s eyes on him, tracking the motion as he lowered the cup from his lips. He forced a smile. 

“Bracing,” he said. 

“Perhaps you should take it in the mornings,” Byleth said, folding her hands before her. “It could help you make it to class.” 

Ferdinand felt a shameful blush creep into his cheeks. He knew Byleth would have noticed his absence, but he hadn’t expected her to care so much. It had only been a few days, hadn’t it? He was not sure. 

“I- I’m- I am deeply sorry for my absence,” Ferdinand said. 

Goddess, was he stammering? What was wrong with him? He tried to explain more, but his brain had turned to mush. Stringing together another sentence was beyond him. He clamped his mouth shut and averted his eyes. 

“Ferdinand, was Zanado your first real battle?” 

Ferdinand nodded, staring into the depths of his teacup. He clenched the handle tightly between two fingers. 

“Was that Fighter your first kill?” 

His fingers began to tremble. A wave of nausea crashed over him. That awful gurgle echoed in his ears. He shut hit eyes. 

“Take a deep breath, Ferdinand. Breathe in, counting to five, and then breathe out.”

Byleth’s voice cut clear and sharp through the haze in mind. He did as instructed, a deep inhale followed by a shaky exhale. He did it again. Again. Slowly, the haze dissipated. The nausea receded to a lump in his throat. The sickening feeling hovered at the edges of his mind, but did not overtake him. Byleth repeated her question. 

“Yes,” Ferdinand answered finally. 

“I see.” 

Startling Ferdinand, Byleth reached across the table and covered one hand with her own. She gripped him tightly. 

“It is no easy thing to take a life,” she said. 

Ferdinand nodded. His eyes stung and he fought back the tears that threatened to spill over his lashes. 

“But it is necessary, in our line of work,” she continued. “You will have to do it again.” 

A tear slipped down Ferdinand’s cheek. Then another. Then his eyes were streaming and his nose was running and — oh Goddess, they were in the courtyard and anyone could walk by and see him bawling. He scrubbed the hand that was not clenching Byleth’s over his face. 

“I’m sorry, Professor,” he gasped through sobs. “I do not mean to make a scene.” 

Byleth only squeezed his hand in reply and waited for him to collect himself. After a few more deep breaths, Ferdinand found himself back in control. He shuddered, an aftereffect of the sobs, then squared his shoulders. 

“I- I know that besting enemies on the battlefield is part of my noble duties,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I was not prepared for how it would feel. To see a man dead before me struck down by my own hands.” 

“I understand. The first time can be a shock.” 

Ferdinand gazed into Byleth’s eyes. “Were you shocked? The first time?” 

Byleth shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Frankly, yes. It was difficult,” she admitted. “But I grew up fighting, training as a mercenary. Death has always surrounded me.”

“What do you feel when you kill?” 

“I feel plenty,” Byleth said. “But I have never had the luxury of questioning it. I recognize that what I am doing has to be done. And that necessity supersedes my feelings.” 

“This is why you are such a superb warrior,” Ferdinand said, taking a sip of his rapidly cooling tea. “You can ignore your emotions.” 

Byleth shook her head. “You are missing the point,” she corrected, voice still gentle. “I am not suggesting you ignore your feelings. You need not become a heartless killer. Mourn the death of each of your enemies as you would a fallen ally. But do not let your mourning keep you from your duty.” 

Ferdinand nodded slowly. Perhaps, he understood. As a noble and a soldier, he could not indulge in his emotions the way a common civilian could. It simply was not befitting his station. He would need to find some better outlet for how he felt. He took yet another deep breath and steadied his mind. 

“I will not shirk my duties any longer,” Ferdinand said. “I will be the perfect student. I will outshine my peers on the battlefield!” 

His peers… How had his classmates fared in this last battle? 

“Have you been having these conversations with all of the Black Eagles?” he asked. “With Edelgard?” 

Byleth raised an eyebrow at him. “I take tea with all my students.” 

“But did Edelgard need this, this reminder of her duties?” 

“Ah, I see. This again,” Byleth said, smiling slightly. 

“I will take that as a no.”

So! While he had been dallying in bed, his rival had been unaffected. No doubt Edelgard felt only invigorated after the battle. She had likely been training and improving, while Ferdinand had fallen behind. That certainly would not do. 

“I will resume my efforts,” Ferdinand said, rising to his feet. 

“I am glad to hear it,” Byleth said. “Does this mean I can expect you in class tomorrow?”

“Yes, on my honor as a noble!” Ferdinand said.

And he meant it. He shook the cobwebs of doubt and grief from his mind. He imagined himself packing those feelings away into a large, wooden trunk. Not gone, not forgotten, but not in the way, either. He would deal with them in the manner of a true noble. He would not be distracted from his goals.


	3. Garland Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a delayed update. I'll try to be more regular with the chapter updates moving forward. Also, note that the fic title has changed. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

A small ruin on the outskirts of Garreg Mach served as the rendezvous point. Hubert considered it an ideal location. The monastery’s roving patrols rarely wandered this far south. And even if they did, what was there to see? The crumbling facade was unremarkable against the craggy hillside. 

For four weeks, Hubert travelled to the ruin. He disliked the journey; he much preferred warping to walking. But he could not use the magic without the risk of alerting Rhea. And if the Archbishop caught wind of his movements, all was lost. So each week, Hubert made the trip on foot. He met with one of Those Who Slither in the Dark, typically Kronya. They would exchange intelligence, updates, barbed threats. Then Hubert would make the trip back. 

This night was no different. Hubert slunk through the woods, quickening his pace as he drew closer to the monastery. He longed to return, to steal a few hours of sleep before the day began. He was nearly there. 

Hubert’s legs throbbed in protest, the result of a grueling riding lesson earlier in the day. But, he admitted to himself, it was not just the riding. It was not just his legs. His whole body was weary. This double life — student by day, spymaster by night — was pushing him to his limits. And it was affecting his work. He had mis-drawn three sigils during the last Black Magic Tournament. He could hardly keep his eyes open during Byleth’s lectures. On one occasion, he did actually fall asleep and had to endure the subsequent week of being called “Linhardt Two” by his classmates. 

But the mockery, the exhaustion, the persistent ache in his head, they were all worth it. Hubert would subject himself to a lifetime of undignified nicknames and sleep deprivation, if it meant realizing Edelgard’s vision for Fodlan. There was no limit to what he was willing to do. But Hubert’s body knew limits that his will did not. 

As if to prove this point, Hubert’s toe caught in a tree root and he pitched forward. A small cry escaped his lips as his ankle was wrenched to the right. Pain erupted up his left leg and he hit the ground. Just his damn luck! Groaning, Hubert dragged himself into an upright position. He eased off his boot and sock, and his heart sank. Even in the dim light before dawn, he could see the damage. The skin around his ankle was inflamed and darkening rapidly. Hubert twitched his toes experimentally, wincing as pain arced through his foot. It was a fairly bad sprain. 

It was no matter. Hubert prepared for all eventualities, even ones as undignified as tripping and falling. He pulled a small flask from his pocket. The vulnerary glowed blue in his hand. Tipping his head back, he downed it in one gulp. Immediately, a warmth spread through his body and the sharp pain in his ankle subsided. It was not fully healed, but would certainly support him for the mile-long path back to the monastery. Hubert staggered back to his feet. 

He managed only two more steps. On the second, exhaustion and pain gripped him tightly and dragged him to the ground. He could not stop here, only hidden from the main road by a copse of trees. And yet, he could not proceed. Hubert had just enough presence of mind to conjure fire and burn his meeting notes before consciousness slipped away. 

The thundering of hooves woke him. His brain was mush from the hours spent unconscious. What time was it? Was he under attack? Squinting in the bright light, Hubert could make out the outline of a broad-shouldered figure on horseback. Hubert tensed instinctively, waiting to be struck. But the blow did not come. 

“Are you injured?” 

The voice was melodious, familiar. Hubert fought to recognize it, but his mind was far too foggy for any recollection. The figure dismounted in one fluid motion and knelt at Hubert’s side. As it did, bright orange eyes and an earnest, freckled face came into focus. Hubert groaned. Of course, Ferdinand von Aegir would manage to find him here. 

“Were you attacked?” 

Hubert did not expect or particularly like the concern lacing Ferdinand’s voice. It left a sour taste in his mouth. 

“I’m fine,” he said. “I just…” 

He cast around his mind for an excuse. What could he say? Unable to think of anything suitable, Hubert focused his efforts on pushing himself upright. He felt Ferdinand place a steadying hand on his back and bristled at the touch. 

“I said, I’m fine,” Hubert snapped.

Ferdinand snatched his hand back. His expression changed from worry to annoyance. 

“That hardly seems true,” he said. “You were unconscious and completely defenseless only moments ago.”

“I am not defenseless,” Hubert said. “I- I stopped to sleep.” 

Ferdinand scoffed. “You need not tell me the truth, but do not lie to me so poorly.”

Hubert felt his face flush. The lie was indeed a feeble one. Not even Ferdinand was enough of a fool to fall for that. Normally, Hubert had a half dozen plausible excuses for his secretive actions, but here, caught off guard and exhausted, his mind had failed him. Unsure what else to do, Hubert shrugged. 

“I apologize,” he said haltingly, the words foreign on his tongue. “I appreciate your finding me.”

He did not make a habit of apologizing to anyone but Edelgard. But in this moment, it was necessary. He needed to move the conversation along, away from the circumstances that had brought him here. And sure enough, the opportunity for politesse quickly distracted Ferdinand. 

“There is no need for that,” Ferdinand said. “You are in a moment of need and it is my duty to assist. I will not ask about your business any further.” 

With that, he pulled Hubert up to his feet. The motion made Hubert’s head spin. He stumbled and would have fallen, were it not for a pair of strong hands that caught him by the shoulders. This time, Hubert did not shrug off Ferdinand’s grasp. Instead, he found himself feeling almost grateful. As much as he loathed this entire situation, Hubert was glad to avoid pitching face-first into the dirt again. 

“You are in no condition to walk,” Ferdinand said. “Mount my horse and I will walk alongside you. It is only a short distance to the monastery.” 

“I will do no such thing,” Hubert replied. 

He could hardly allow all of Garreg Mach to see him in such a state. It would raise too many questions. And the embarrassment! The thought of it had Hubert beside himself — to be marched into the monastery as Ferdinand pranced alongside him, all too eager to play the hero. 

“I cannot in good conscience abandon you here,” Ferdinand argued.

Hubert scowled. If it were anyone else, he could perhaps talk his way out of this. But Ferdinand was like a dog with a bone when it came to manners of nobility. He would not be dissuaded. But perhaps, Hubert thought, he could be compromised with. 

“Very well, I will return partway to the monastery with you,” Hubert said. “But let me walk up to the main gate myself.” 

Ferdinand threw his head back and laughed, a short, harsh noise. “I did not realize you were so prideful,” he said. “If I had known this was a matter of ego, I would not have insisted.”

Hubert opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself. Let Ferdinand think him a prideful idiot if he wished. It did not matter. Still, Hubert could not help the pinpricks of embarrassment that heated his cheeks. This whole matter was deeply, unforgivably humiliating. 

To his credit, Ferdinand did not mention anything further. The two began their journey back to Garreg Mach in a companionable silence. Ferdinand began to hum a joyful, lilting tune, low and soft, more to himself than anyone else. Hubert slumped wearily in the saddle. On any other day, he would complain about the music. But now, bones weary and body aching, he was resigned to listen to the bright-haired boy leading his steed and watch the road that stretched out empty before them. 

The next day, Hubert attended a seminar by Hanneman. Normally, he would do anything to avoid an hour listening to the Crest scholar drone on about bloodlines and symmetries. But after yesterday’s incident — the indignity of being found by Ferdinand and the even greater shame of having to explain it to Edelgard — he welcomed the normalcy of a dull lecture. He watched as Hanneman drew the Crest of Indech on a chalkboard, his eyes following the motion but taking in nothing. 

Edelgard had been sympathetic, but disappointed when Hubert finally reported to her. 

“We cannot have our plans discovered,” she had said.

“Discovered? By Ferdinand?” Hubert had snorted. “He suspects nothing.” 

“Make sure of it. He must not speak a word of this unfortunate incident,” she had commanded. Then, more softly, “Take care of yourself. This happened because you insist on burning the candle at both ends. I need you at your best.” 

To his surprise, none of the other Black Eagles mentioned the affair to Hubert. He was expecting constant teasing, perhaps more comparisons to Linhardt, but none came. Perhaps, unbelievably, Ferdinand had kept the story to himself? It was unlike the young man, especially given that the incident cast him as a gallant hero, striding in on horseback to save a wretch like Hubert. 

Hubert was startled back to attention by polite applause. The lecture had ended. People were slowly filtering out of the classroom. Hubert hastily gathered his papers and made to follow the crowd out the door, when a gloved hand smacked down on the desk before him.

“Hubert! I demand a moment of your time.”

Ferdinand appeared before him, eyes blazing, as if summoned by Hubert’s thoughts. The shorter man was slightly out of breath. Had he run here to catch Hubert at the end of seminar? Hubert glared and motioned for Ferdinand to continue. Ferdinand cast a glance around the now-empty classroom, before striding to shut the door. He then took the lecturer’s position at the front of the room, leaning against the podium with arms folded. He made a big show of giving Hubert a once over. Hubert seethed under his questioning gaze.

“Enough theatrics,” he said. “Spit it out. What are you here for? Have you hatched another scheme to try and bother Lady Edelgard with?” 

“Actually, I was thinking about our chance encounter yesterday.” Ferdinand smirked. “Do you remember, when I found you unconscious on the side of the road?”

Hubert’s mouth went dry. “Yes, I recall.” 

“And further, I provided you my steed, so you could safely make the journey back to the monastery?” 

“Yes, and what of it?” Hubert was impatient. What was Ferdinand getting at? 

Ferdinand shoved his hands in his pockets and began to slowly pace the length of the classroom. He showed no regard for Hubert’s urgency, pausing to peer out the window and running a hand through his hair. 

“I keep wondering, Hubert,” he finally said. “Why were you so far outside of town? There’s nothing in that direction for miles, certainly nothing of interest that you could reach on foot.”

He stopped then and turned away from the window. Hubert squirmed slightly under his penetrating gaze. 

“I take walks,” Hubert said, unable to conjure up a better excuse. 

“A midnight stroll? That hardly seems likely,” Ferdinand countered. He resumed his pacing. “I consulted some maps of the locality, Hubert. And sure enough, you would need a mount to reach anything of note to the south of Garreg Mach. But when I found you, you were on foot.” 

Ferdinand abruptly pivoted on one heel. “There is only one possibility: you are meeting someone!”

Hubert wished the floor could open up beneath him and swallow him whole. He had underestimated Ferdinand. How could have expected that this blithering idiot would guess so much? The fool rarely looked past the end of his lance, but now he was consulting maps? Drawing conclusions? And who had he told? 

“Who would I be meeting?” Hubert said. 

Ferdinand nodded thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “An excellent question, Hubert. Who would you be meeting? I asked myself that question quite a bit.” 

He sat down and primly crossed his legs. He smiled devilishly. 

“A secret meeting, in the dead of night, well outside of Garreg Mach,” he continued. “Could it be, Hubert, that you were meeting a lover?” 

The suggestion was laughable. Hubert fought to keep a straight face, bit back a sharp retort. But this could be his out. He raised his hands in mock defeat.

“I am afraid you’ve caught me,” he said with an air of finality. “Last night, I left Garreg Mach to meet a lover.” 

The words felt foreign, ridiculous on his tongue. A lover? Midnight trysts? As if Hubert could be so easily distracted by schmaltz and romance. But he knew, from his meticulous observations of his classmates, that Ferdinand was a romantic at heart. The fool would certainly fall for this lie. 

Ferdinand barked out a laugh. “I would believe that, Hubert, if you had an ounce of romance in your body. There are toads with more romantic inclinations than you.” 

The claim was not inaccurate, but the confidence with which Ferdinand said it sent a strange pang through Hubert’s chest. A toad, of all things! But he shook the discomfort from his mind. There was a more important issue at hand: leading Ferdinand away from this topic.

“My romantic capacity notwithstanding,” Hubert said, “what reason would I have for meeting someone?”

“What reason? Why, the only reason when it comes to you, Hubert,” Ferdinand said. “You were meeting someone for Edelgard.”

Hubert smiled ghoulishly. Ferdinand had waltzed right into his trap.

“For Lady Edelgard?” Hubert corrected, pitching his voice dangerously low. “If that is the case, then this prying into her affairs is highly inappropriate. Perhaps even ignoble. After all, these are the affairs of the Empire you are meddling in.” 

Ferdinand's face flushed with anger. “Ignoble! What are you accusing me of?” 

“I am merely suggesting that any continued investigation into this affair would constitute insubordination, even treason,” Hubert continued. “After all, you are sticking your nose into the private business of Lady Edelgard, the next in line for the Imperial throne, and her retainer.” 

Ferdinand scoffed loudly. “You would go so far to avoid telling me the truth? It must be quite the secret.” 

“It is none of your business,” Hubert said, confident now in the trap he had set. Ferdinand would not dare pry further. “You would do well not to mention any details of this affair to anyone else.” 

It was Ferdinand’s turn to scowl, an unusual expression on the typically exuberant noble. It looked so incongruous with everything Hubert had come to expect from the man. But it meant that the ploy had worked: Ferdinand would go no further at the risk of impropriety. 

“I’ll keep your secret,” Ferdinand said at last, defeated, “for a price.”

“And what price would that be?” Hubert asked. “I will not sing your praises to Lady Edelgard, if that is what you are hoping for.” 

Ferdinand shook his head. “Have tea with me.”

“What?” 

The surprise nearly sent Hubert stumbling. All this for tea? Hubert knew that Ferdinand took tea with his classmates, typically Bernadetta or Lorenz, but he had hardly expected an invitation. After all, Hubert was not the ideal candidate for an hour of sipping bergamot and nibbling pastry. 

“Tomorrow,” Ferdinand said, “join me for my afternoon tea. Perhaps you will learn something about me worth telling Edelgard about.” 

“So this is about Lady Edelgard after all,” Hubert said. “I cannot promise that I will learn anything worth sharing. In fact, I doubt it.”

“We shall see,” Ferdinand retorted, raising his chin in defiance. “Take tea with me and I will not breathe word of rescuing you ever again.” 

Hubert nodded his assent and stalked out of the classroom. A tea in exchange for Ferdinand’s silence. It would be unbearable, but it was a means to an end. It was just his bad luck that Hubert abhorred tea.


	4. Blue Sea Moon I

Most people would find the a competition with the Imperial Princess, an individual who excelled in everything she tried, a daunting prospect. But Ferdinand had kept up with Edelgard for years. From his youth, he did everything he could to best the Princess, constantly striving to improve himself. When she picked up the axe, he picked up the lance. When she began to paint, he began to sing. He matched her, beat for beat, in every area of life worth competing in. 

He had yet to face her directly. Edelgard never accepted any of Ferdinand’s many challenges, whether to spar or to race or even to fish. She would demur and change the topic or roll her eyes and whisper to Hubert. So Ferdinand learned to gauge his progress on his own, recording his many accomplishments in a notebook and evaluating Edelgard whenever possible. By his latest calculations, the two were neck in neck. Any day now, he would surpass her. It was this fact that prompted him to propose a tea with Hubert. It was not enough for Ferdiannd to know he was better than Edelgard. Everyone had to know. Most importantly, Edelgard had to know. And what better way to reach the Imperial Princess’ ears than through her dedicated retainer? 

Ferdinand planned an immaculate tea, another of his many skills he had developed while competing with Edelgard. He set out a small, round-top table and covered it in a light, lacy cloth. He procured a variety of pastries, which he delicately arranged on a three-tiered porcelain stand. To top it all off, he fetched some of the finest tea the Garreg Mach merchants had to offer. He prepared it all to perfection. He was determined to delight Hubert with fine food and scintillating conversation. And if all went to plan, a thoroughly charmed Hubert would report on Ferdinand’s many talents to Edelgard. 

Moments after Ferdinand settled into his seat, Hubert arrived. He dropped into his seat unceremoniously and crossed his arms. 

“You are punctual,” Ferdinand commented, carefully filling two cups with tea. “I have chosen an invigorating ginger tea.”

“I prefer coffee,” Hubert said. 

Ferdinand frowned, but said nothing, as his guest lifted the tea cup to his lips with a grimace. He had already made a mistake: tea instead of coffee. But how could he have accounted for Hubert’s poor taste? Hastily, he gestured to the tiered stand laden with sweets, but Hubert showed little interest. It was no matter. If Ferdinand could not ply Hubert with food and drink, he would use conversation instead. 

“Tell me, Hubert,” he began, “have you noticed the latest wares from the East? The merchants have brought all manner of exotic goods to Garreg Mach.”

Hubert arched an eyebrow. “Is this why you dragged me to tea? To discuss shopping?” 

Ferdinand winced. It was foolish to think Hubert could be won over by idle chatter. He cast about his mind for another topic. Hubert drummed his gloved fingers on the tabletop. His eyes tracked Ferdinand’s every movement, as if assessing an opponent on the battlefield. He seemed unperturbed by the halting conversation and showed no interest in offering a topic of his own. He sipped his tea and stared over the top of his teacup. Ferdinand felt stripped bare under his companion’s penetrating gaze. Scrambling, he seized upon the first topic of conversation to cross his mind.

“You must have noticed my lance skills have greatly improved,” Ferdinand said. “I defeated three of Lord Lonato’s soldiers singlehandedly.”

“Lady Edelgard was our greatest asset in that battle,” Hubert said cooly. “She killed the dark mage.”

Ferdinand frowned into his teacup. Even now, Hubert insisted on recounting Edelgard’s accomplishments. Was he truly so blinded by the Princess? Or did she shine so bright that Ferdinand seemed dull in comparison?

“It was the Professor who struck the final blow,” Ferdinand said, desperate for a topic, any topic that did not involve Edelgard. “She killed that villain Lonato.”

The words made Hubert smirk, a crooked curve that did nothing to soften his harsh features. “A villain? I did not realize you felt so strongly.”

Ferdinand’s heart leapt to his throat. At last, a response that did not involve Edelgard!

“Lord Lonato was a disgraceful noble,” Ferdinand said, emboldened. “He dragged civilians — those he was sworn to protect — into a mess of his own making.” 

“A mess indeed,” Hubert murmured, almost to himself. “A minor lord leading a feeble army against the Church. He never stood a chance.” 

“So many commoners died for nothing,” Ferdinand agreed. “Lonato forgot that his duty lies with the people. He is one of too many nobles who forget the most important aspects of nobility.”

A trill of delight ran through Ferdinand. They were conversing, truly conversing, with no cruel jabs or backhanded compliments. It did not matter that this topic was hardly suited to a peaceful teatime. Lonato’s actions infuriated Ferdinand. Thinking about the innocent folk who lost their lives in the uprising made his hackles rise. 

Hubert quirked his head to one side. He watched Ferdinand through narrowed eyes. Ferdinand shifted nervously under his gaze. There was something in the way Hubert stared, as if he were a researcher carefully dissecting a frog, taking in every minute detail before deciding what to do next. Ferdinand pushed crumbs of teacake around his plate as he waited for Hubert to speak. 

“Maybe Lonato did not deserve the rank and title of noble to begin with,” Hubert offered after a prolonged silence. 

Ferdinand nodded, tearing his eyes away from Hubert’s. He could not bear the intensity of his gaze any longer. He settled his eyes on Hubert’s mouth instead, lips parted and moistened by tea. That, at least, could not stare back. 

“It seems that way. Too many nobles are born into their position, but do not serve the people properly,” Ferdinand said. He swirled the tea remaining in his cup. “My father is among them. More concerned with furthering his own interests than supporting the citizens of the Empire.”

This seemed to pique Hubert’s interest. The man leaned over the table, as if to catch every word that Ferdinand said. This close, Ferdinand could make out every detail of Hubert’s face: a curtain of lank dark hair in sharp contrast with pale skin stretched over jutting cheekbones, fine wrinkles gathered in the corners of startlingly green eyes ringed with exhaustion. 

“You have doubts about nobility,” Hubert said, as if it were a statement of fact.

“I know what it means to be noble,” Ferdinand replied. “And I know that many nobles do not live up to the requirements of nobility. Is that what you mean by doubts?” 

“I mean to say, you have concerns about the current system of nobility.” 

Ferdinand thought about this. The current system? Indeed, many people were born into noble standing who did not behave nobly. People who, by the lottery of birth, had power but did not know what to do with it. And there was little recourse for the common people who suffered under the rule of such irresponsible and treasonous nobles, unless another noble or the Church chose to intervene. 

“I suppose I do,” Ferdinand said after a pause. “Being born into nobility is no guarantee of being a truly noble ruler. And innocent commoners suffer when such nobles fail to rise to their station. Lonato is a recent example. I only wish there were some solution to this.” 

Hubert leaned back in his chair, eyes sparkling with interest. He tapped one gloved finger against his cheek. “I assumed you were blinded by your adoration of all things noble, but on the contrary, you have noticed the cracks in the very foundation of our continent. You must not be as dull as I first assumed. You might even be…insightful.” 

Ferdinand flushed. He wanted to snap, of course I am not dull! But the pleasure of receiving a compliment (or, as close to a compliment as Hubert von Vestra could get) outweighed his annoyance. Unsure what to do, Ferdinand settled on taking a long sip of his tea.

“If you give up your endless competitions with Lady Edelgard,” Hubert continued, “you could prove useful to the Empire.”Abruptly, Hubert stood. “I’m finished with my tea. We have conversed. I believe I have met the requirements of our agreement.” 

“Done already? The conversation had just begun,” Ferdinand protested. In all honesty, he was curious to hear what Hubert found “useful” about him. 

“I have other matters to attend to,” Hubert said. “I assume you will uphold your end of our bargain. I will be greatly displeased if I hear anyone speaking of…that unfortunate incident.” 

Sensing that he could not coax Hubert into staying any longer, Ferdinand relented. “You have my word, on my honor as a noble!” 

At that, Hubert chuckled darkly before turning on his heel and walking away. Ferdinand watched his rangy figure retreat into the distance. He had the distinct feeling that he had managed to impress Hubert, although it was not, as he had planned, with his lancework. Still, it was a victory. And if any word of Hubert’s praise managed to reach Edelgard’s ears, Ferdinand would be well pleased. 

Memories of the teatime were swept away in the next few days, as the monastery became a veritable whirlwind of activity. The Black Eagles, under Edelgard’s leadership, decided that the note found on Lonato’s man was a crude attempt at misdirection. It became something of a race to figure out what the true target of the “assassins” would be. Ferdinand argued frequently that they should guard the armory. After all, the Church had amassed many wars’ worth of ancient and rare weaponry. Despite the vigor with which he made his point, Byleth was the only one to take note of his suggestion. This would typically flatter Ferdinand, if not for the fact that Byleth took notes on everyone’s suggestions. Any moment she was not teaching or training, Byleth was discussing someone’s theory on what the enemy might be after. 

At this particular moment, Byleth sat cross-legged on a desk — informal to an extent nearing impropriety, as was typical of her — in the Black Eagle classroom, speaking to Edelgard about her findings. Edelgard appeared unbothered by her professor’s demeanor. If anything, she was greatly at ease with Byleth, as if loafing about and chatting were a natural part of their routines. Ferdinand sat at a desk on the opposite side of the room, idly flipping through an assigned reading. The text was dull, but Ferdinand felt obligated to try his very best to get through it. He would not have Edelgard outshining him in class. Edelgard’s voice suddenly rose with excitement and Ferdinand, who had been trying very hard not to eavesdrop, could not help but overhear.

“You’ve deduced our enemies’ target?” Edelgard said, her strong voice carrying easily across the classroom. 

“There’s a place the Church values above all others,” Byleth replied. “On the day of the rite, it will be open to the public. That will make it much easier than usual to access.” 

“The Holy Mausoleum,” Edelgard said. 

“Exactly,” Byleth said, nodding. “We can’t know for certain, but it’s a distinct possibility.”

Edelgard stepped neatly in front of the professor and tilted her head to one side. “How did you figure this out?”

Byleth shrugged. “I asked around. It was obvious once I talked to the right people.”

“So this is why you’ve been running around the monastery every day. You’re a strange one, Professor.”

Edelgard murmured the words and lifted a hand to catch Byleth’s chin with her fingers. She stared at Byleth with amused confusion, as if she were a problem to be puzzled over. Edelgard’s face flushed a delicate pink, as if she were embarrassed by her own forwardness. The two women locked eyes and the whole room fell away around him.

Ferdinand hurried to refocus on his book. The touch was so delicate, the way one might cup a fresh blossom in the greenhouse. Surely he was not meant to witness it. Ferdinand had never seen an expression like the one on Edelgard’s face, hungry and curious and excited. He felt like an intrusion. Unsure what else to do, Ferdinand cleared his throat and loudly flipped a few pages of his textbook.

Edelgard snatched her hand back as if she had been burned, the color of her face now closer to the Black Eagle banner hanging on the wall behind her. Byleth spun on the desk to face Ferdinand, but no surprise or embarrassment registered on her face. She was blank as ever.

“What do you think? Is the mausoleum the target?” 

It was Ferdinand’s turn to blush. Had she known he was listening in all along?

“That would be the most logical conclusion,” he stammered, “although I recommend posting guards outside both the armory and the stables as well.” 

“Still on about the armory, are you?” 

Hubert appeared in the doorway, arms folded and lip curling unpleasantly. Ferdinand had never been more grateful to see the man in his life. This, at least, would be some distraction from whatever had passed between Byleth and Edelgard. And with some luck, the two women would not exchange more strange, intimate gestures in Hubert’s presence. Ferdinand leapt at the opportunity to fall into familiar rhythms, a spirited debate with his most ardent detractor. 

“The armory houses some of the most valuable weapons known to Fodlan,” he said, an indignant spirit rearing its head. “We would be foolish to discount their appeal to a potential thief. What will we do if our own arms are turned against us?” 

But Hubert did not rise to Ferdinand’s challenge. Instead, he peered at Edelgard from across the room, his eyes tinged with concern. 

“Lady Edelgard, you are flushed,” he said. “Is something the matter? Shall I fetch some water?”

Edelgard, whose face was still recovering from the earlier embarrassment, shook her head. “It’s nothing. Maybe too much time in the sun.” 

Hubert frowned, but did not question any further. 

“There are some Imperial matters that require your attention,” he said instead. “A letter arrived…”

This was as good an opportunity as any to slip away. Nodding a curt goodbye, Ferdinand sidestepped around Hubert and left. In the dazzlingly bright light of the courtyard, Ferdinand felt his mind clear. Still, he could not forget Edelgard’s expression. She looked like a lioness, ready to pounce. But Byleth was not exactly prey, far from it. No, Byleth had met Edelgard’s eyes with equal challenge. They could have been locked in battle or in an embrace. Whatever had passed between them was not something Ferdinand could fully understand. 

In the following days, Ferdinand did his best to push what he had witnessed to the back of his mind. Feeling very much like a spy, he decided to tuck this particular piece of information away until it became useful. In a moment of fancy, he imagined this was how Hubert spent his time, filing away damning details on all of his classmate for future use. And much like Hubert, Ferdinand began to observe. He watched how Byleth smiled faintly when Edelgard answered a question in class. He watched how her hands would linger on Edelgard when correcting her form during training. He watched how often the two took tea, each stealing glances at the other. He watched but did not know what to make of any of it.


	5. Blue Sea Moon II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this latest update. Starting with Chapter 6, I'll be posting on a weekly basis. More details to follow when 6 is posted.

On the day of the Goddess’ Rite of Rebirth, Hubert found himself hunched in the stairwell to the Holy Mausoleum, shoulder to shoulder with his classmates. They stood in silence, hands gripping weapons and ears perked for the slightest noise. Before long, a sound of armored footsteps broke the silence. It was time. 

The Black Eagles surged into the mausoleum, taking up their positions with practiced ease. In the dim light, Hubert could make out a small company of soldiers, uniforms emblazoned with the Western Church insignia. Their torches threw long shadows across the mausoleum floor. At the far end of the room, a mage fought to pry open a sarcophagus, the Tomb of Saint Seiros. It was just as Hubert and Edelgard had planned. The Goddess’ Rite of Rebirth had proven the perfect cover for their slithery allies to make their way into the mausoleum and unearth this holy relic of the Church of Seiros. Hubert could feel his heart thrum with excitement. What powerful artifact had the Church locked away here? By the looks of it, they would all find out in a matter of moments. At the sound of the Black Eagles’ arrival, the mage began to bark orders.

“Death Knight! Prove your strength and scatter these fools!”

“I don’t take commands. Or waste my time on weaklings.”

The harsh growl echoed through the mausoleum. The Death Knight was a towering, ghoulish man. His black armor matched that of his steed, a hellish black beast that stamped impatiently at the ground. He wielded an enormous scythe, a cruel curve of blackened metal that shone in the low torchlight. Hubert bit back a smirk. It was all coming together. 

“Let me show you just how strong I am,” Byleth snarled and drew her sword. 

She took a step forward, preparing to dash into range of the Death Knight. Hubert tensed at the sight. If Byleth charged forward, if she defeated the Death Knight, she might make it to the mage before the sarcophagus was open. But Hubert need not worry. As usual, Edelgard was a few steps ahead of him. Edelgard grabbed Byleth by the wrist, causing the mercenary to stumble back. 

“Don’t,” Edelgard said. “That knight is a powerful enemy. We would do best to avoid him.”

Byleth whipped around, her eyes blazing. “We need to stop that mage from opening the tomb of Saint Seiros. The fastest way to do that is through the Death Knight.”

“Do you really think we’re ready for such a formidable foe?” Edelgard asked. Her hand slipped down from Byleth’s wrist to grip her hand.

The familiarity of the motion was not lost on Hubert. But for once, he did not mind it. Whatever the relationship between Edelgard and Byleth, perhaps it would be to their advantage in this moment. It might be just the thing to convince Byleth to step away from this fight. Byleth wavered, looking long and hard at Edelgard before turning back to the Death Knight. She turned again to stare at the Black Eagles, still standing at attention behind her. 

Recognizing an opportunity, Hubert cleared his throat. 

“We don’t know how long it would take to defeat the Death Knight,” he said. “But we can easily dispatch the Western Church soldiers along the sides of the mausoleum. It’s an indirect route, but it would be safer and more expedient. Besides, the Death Knight does not seem like he intends to engage us.”

As if on cue, the Death Knight lowered his scythe. The Black Eagles were wide open for an attack, but the knight did not charge. Instead, he watched silently, his black metal mask giving away nothing. 

“Hubert is right,” Ferdinand said suddenly. “Speed is of the essence and we can quickly defeat those Western Church soldiers. But I cannot judge what that Death Knight is capable of. Who knows how long it would take to best him.” 

The comment took Hubert by surprise. It was rare that he and Ferdinand would fall on the same side of an issue, and even rarer that Ferdinand would back away from a fight.

“I don’t want to be here either way,” Linhardt said through a yawn. “But fighting the Death Knight seems like a lot more trouble.” 

“Seems like a lot of fun, if you ask me,” Caspar said, raising his axe aloft. “Let me at him! I’m not afraid of no Death Knight!”

Linhardt reached up and pulled Caspar’s axe back down, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure you aren’t, but when you inevitably get beat up, it’ll be my job to heal you.”

“I am in agreement with the Professor,” Petra said, her calm voice rising above Caspar and Linhardt’s squabbling. “A straight line is the shortest path.”

“But maybe not the fastest,” Dorothea countered. “I think Hubie and Edie have the right idea.” 

Bernadetta did not say anything — she was trembling too hard to speak — but made a squeak that sounded like agreement.

“It seems like the class has voted,” Hubert said, eyes sliding back over to Byleth. “But this is not a democracy. What do you command?”

Byleth glanced over her students before squeezing Edelgard’s hand tightly. 

“We’ll go around,” she said finally. “Black Eagles, move out!”

Hubert leapt to action, feeling his classmates do the same at his side. The mausoleum was filled with bright flashes of magic and the clash of steel against steel. Grimly determined, the Black Eagles pushed their way to the back of the mausoleum. Hubert watched the Death Knight out of the corner of his eye. True to their agreement, the knight did not move an inch. He stood, impassive, as the Black Eagles skirted around him. The Black Eagles made quick work of the Western Church soldiers, but they were not fast enough. As Byleth tore up the steps to the Tomb of Saint Seiros, the mage crowed in victory. 

“You’re too late! The seal is broken!” He pried the lid of the tomb away from its base. “Huh? That’s not what—”

Byleth executed the mage with practiced ease. She stepped over his corpse and peered into the sarcophagus. A warm glow emanated from it, bathing Byleth in a golden light. She looked supernatural, almost godly against the dark shadows of the mausoleum. 

“Professor, what do you see?” Edelgard asked. 

A hush fell over the mausoleum, as every member of the Black Eagles stared eagerly at their professor. Without answering, Byleth unearthed a massive sword from the depths of the tomb. The weapon seemed to come alive in her hands, thrumming against her skin and glowing even brighter. Even at a distance, Hubert could feel the power coming off of the sword in waves. He glanced at Edelgard, who seemed enraptured by the sight. And who wouldn’t be? Their professor appeared to be completely in control of and connected to this piece of otherworldly weaponry. It moved as if it were an extension of herself. 

“I see, what a pleasant surprise,” the Death Knight growled.

Before anyone could react, he vanished in a flash of violet light. 

“Damn it, he escaped,” Edelgard said. “But, Professor, I must know more about that sword.”

“It’s the Sword of the Creator,” Ferdinand said. “The very Hero’s Relic that was once wielded by Nemesis.” 

Hubert glanced at Ferdinand, begrudgingly impressed at the identification. 

“What else do you know about it?” he asked. 

At the question, Ferdinand visibly brightened, straightening up and smiling in spite of the bruise rapidly forming around his left eye. “It was said to be a gift to humanity from the Goddess,” he continued. “After the defeat of Nemesis, its location was hidden from the public. But it must have been here all along, in the Tomb of Saint Seiros.” 

Ferdinand paused, shifting from one foot to the other. It was completely unlike him to hesitate in the spotlight.

“Well, what is it?” Hubert prompted. 

“It’s just that,” he said, “in order to wield the Sword of the Creator, the wielder must carry the Crest of Flames. But that can’t be — I mean, the Professor can’t —”

“The Professor carries the Crest of Flames,” Edelgard breathed. 

It wasn’t possible. How could Byleth possibly carry that Crest? Before Hubert could grab his professor by the shoulders and demand an explanation, the Knights of Seiros burst into the room. Thunder Catherine stood at their helm. 

“Looks like you have this under control,” she said. “Now what’s that you’ve got there?” 

Hubert scowled as Catherine converged on the Sword of the Creator. His own questioning would have to wait until later. He exchanged a measured glance with Edelgard, could see that she felt his own curiosity and excitement. What would this mean for their plans? What did this mean about Byleth? Their conversation would come later, away from the ears of the Church and their prying classmates. In the meantime, Hubert had research to do. He rounded on Ferdinand.

“I want to know everything you know about the Sword of the Creator. Its history, its abilities, anything. No detail is too trivial.”

Ferdinand did not shirk back from the taller man’s sudden and fierce attention. If anything, he basked in it. 

“I am so glad you asked,” he said genuinely, all animosity between them forgotten at the chance to show off. “I am something of a weapons expert. I have studied extensively under some of the greatest weapons historians in Enbarr!”

Hubert would normally find this version of Ferdinand, loud and boastful, but ultimately useful, deeply irritating. But in this moment, it seemed like the most expedient way to learn more about this sword. Ferdinand looked incredibly young in that moment, his face bright with his desire to help. If Hubert were anyone else, he might even find his earnestness charming. 

“Very well, let’s finish up here,” Hubert said, gesturing vaguely around the mausoleum. “Then, we will talk.”

That evening, the dining hall was packed. Every knight, faculty, and student was desperate to hear more about the intruders in the Holy Mausoleum and the Sword of the Creator. Byleth’s table was particularly crowded, with some people even standing around it to catch bits of the conversation. Edelgard was perched at Byleth’s right, hanging on every word her professor said. 

For once, Hubert did not take up his post at Edelgard’s side. Instead, he picked his way through the crowd to a relatively empty corner of the dining hall, carrying his plate of two-fish sauté protectively. Ferdinand was already there, hands folded patiently. The bruise around his eye had deepened to a rich purple, but it only served to make his bright copper eyes blaze even brighter. 

“Your stew is getting cold,” Hubert said as he dropped into his seat. 

Ferdinand shrugged. “A noble does not begin his meal before his companion.”

“I am not your companion,” Hubert said, lip curling. 

“You requested my time and attention over a meal. That makes us dinner companions,” Ferdinand said, displeasure flashing across his face. “Surely you can manage to be civil for the duration of a meal.”

Hubert fought the urge to sneer. He bit back the retort that was already forming in his throat. It would not do to fall into a petty squabble now. There were more important issues at hand. Hubert nodded towards the gaggle of onlookers surrounding Byleth’s table.

“Our professor has become even more of a celebrity after her performance today,” he said, watching Edelgard flash a rare, genuine grin in Byleth’s direction. 

“Indeed, she seems to grow more intriguing by the minute,” Ferdinand agreed. “It would appear that she is indeed the rightful wielder of the Sword of the Creator. Professor Hanneman even confirmed that she carries the Crest of Flames.”

“Curious,” Hubert murmured. He pierced a white piece of fish on his plate, enjoying how it flaked neatly away under his fork. “How would a wandering mercenary end up with such a powerful Crest?” 

“It certainly is a mystery,” Ferdinand said. He patted his lips gently with a linen napkin before continuing. “Lady Rhea has bestowed the Sword of the Creator to the Professor.” 

“That’s quite an endorsement from the Church. I wonder what they hope to achieve through that.” 

Ferdinand chuckled. “You sound as if you expect the Church to have some nefarious plot.” 

“I don’t know the Church’s motivations, especially when it comes to Professor Byleth,” Hubert corrected. “First, they promote her to a professorship, now they hand over a legendary relic to her? She must be special to them.”

“I see your point.” Ferdinand chewed thoughtfully. He swallowed before saying, “Did you still want to hear more about the sword itself? I know a great deal about it.”

“Yes, you’ve already mentioned your expertise. Go ahead, regale me with your knowledge.” 

Ferdinand smiled broadly then, a dazzling flash of white teeth and pink cheeks. “I knew you would see my value soon enough. I have always said, I am a worthy advisor to Edelgard, overflowing with wisdom and insight. It was only a matter of time before —”

“Yes, yes, I recognize your value,” Hubert said hastily. It was best to cut off Ferdinand before he began to wax poetic about his qualities. “The sword, please.”

“Ah, yes, of course, I was straying from the matter at hand a bit,” Ferdinand said, a bit sheepish. 

A light pink tinged his cheeks, making him look every bit like an eager schoolboy. He shook his head and adopted a deeper timbre as he delved into the details of the Sword of the Creator. He began with its history, bits of which Hubert already knew. The weapon was a supposedly a gift from the Goddess herself, forged in the heavenly realm and bestowed upon Nemesis, the King of Liberation. It was — and continues to be — an unusually powerful sword. Legend had it that it was strong enough to cut down mountains and carve open valleys. 

Nemesis was meant to use the sword for good: to unite Fodlan, which was mired in the depths of a continent-wide war. But he was driven mad by the power of the sword. He was felled by Seiros at the Tailtean Plains. After that, the Sword of the Creator disappeared. It was thought that no one else could wield it, as Nemesis had no known heirs, let alone any that bore his Crest. The sword faded into legend. Its location was unknown for a millennium, thought to be lost to the ages.

“But all along, the Church knew where the Sword of the Creator lay,” Hubert mused. “They had hidden it in the Tomb of Saint Seiros.” 

“Do you think the Western Church knew it was there?” Ferdinand asked. 

“Who can say? We certainly can’t question the Western Church’s men,” Hubert said. “Lady Rhea has seen to that.”

“Execution does seem harsh, and a bit short-sighted,” Ferdinand said. “We do not know if they had any more allies or why they wished to violate the mausoleum in the first place.”

And thank the blazes for that, Hubert thought to himself. While he was sure the Western Church soldiers would not divulge any secrets — they themselves did not know who truly pulled the strings — it was helpful that they were summarily executed. One fewer loose end for Hubert to take care of. 

“Enough talk of dead men,” Hubert said. “Tell me, instead, what makes the Sword of the Creator so powerful?”

“Hubert, are you something of a weapons connoisseur yourself?” Ferdinand asked, voice lilting playfully. “I never would have guessed that this would interest you so.”

“It’s a legendary weapon that came from the Goddess. You don’t have to like weaponry to find that interesting,” Hubert replied. 

Ferdinand smirked, unconvinced. Hubert hoped fervently that this conversation would not encourage Ferdinand to drone on about weaponry in the future. He truly could not understate his interest in arms. The Sword of the Creator was an exception under incredible, extenuating circumstances. 

“The Sword of the Creator has many unique properties that make it notable,” Ferdinand said at last, sparing Hubert any further teasing. “For one thing, it can repair itself. It does not require a blacksmith.”

“A self-repairing weapon? That is special. What sort of substance is it made of, that it can do such a thing?”

Ferdinand frowned, not unhappy with Hubert, but frustrated with himself. 

“I have wondered that myself. One can tell, just from a glance, that it is not made of any earthly metals. But the historical records contain only speculation.”

“The abilities of the sword, however, are well-documented,” Ferdinand continued, “despite it not having been seen in battle for a millennium. You must have noticed the strange grooves along the length of the sword.”

Hubert nodded. 

“Well, that is because of a curious feature of the sword.” Ferdinand leaned forward conspiratorially. “The blade can come apart and extend, to be wielded as a whip.”

“A whip?”

“It can strike a foe ten paces away, with just a flick of the wrist,” Ferdinand said. “It is supposed to be quite remarkable to behold. I can only hope that our professor will utilize this ability in battle, so that I may see it.”

“That does sound quite special,” Hubert said, scraping his fork along his plate to collect the last dregs of his meal. “Thank you for this information.”  
Hubert made as if to leave, eager to report his findings to Edelgard.

“Not so quick!” Ferdinand said, motioning for Hubert to remain seated. “I have not told you the most powerful feature of the sword.”

“Out with it, then.”

“Patience, Hubert,” Ferdinand chided. “There is an art to conversation. It is truly noble skill, one that takes years to hone. I cannot simply rush in and spit out all I know. Where is the artistry in that?”

Hubert resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He had made it this far into the dinner without strangling Ferdinand. He could bear a few moments longer. He quirked an eyebrow, silently urging Ferdinand to continue on to his actual point.

“Very well, I see that your own skills in conversation are not so well-developed,” Ferdinand sighed. “The Sword of the Creator bestows upon its wielder a special combat art: Ruptured Heaven. It is an attack that greatly strengthens one’s blow. It can fell even the most powerful enemy in one stroke. Nemesis himself was said to use it only once. And when he did, the sky tore open and lightning crackled through the air. Hence the name.” 

“I see. So our mighty professor has become even stronger,” Hubert said. “She now commands the power of the heavens.”

“It would appear so.”

Hubert steepled his fingers, turning over everything he had learned in his mind. It seemed only to raise more questions about Byleth, the circumstances of her birth. Could Byleth have some deeper connection to the Church? Rhea clearly considered her an ally, given how readily the Archbishop relinquished the Sword of the Creator to her care. But Byleth herself did not seem that passionate about the Church. In fact, the heavenly origins of the weapon did not seem to interest her in the least. Where did the Professor’s allegiances lie? Hubert swept his hair out of his face. There were quite a few mysteries for him to unravel. But if anyone could tease out the truth from this tangle of myths and legends and lies, it was him and Edelgard. 

“Thank you, Ferdinand, for your insight,” Hubert said, rising at last from the table. “I must take my leave now. But I must say, I am impressed by the depth of your knowledge.”

Ferdinand flushed a lovely rose at that. He was all too susceptible to flattery. But Hubert realized that he had meant the compliment genuinely. This had been a rather productive dinner.

“I am always happy to offer advice,” Ferdinand replied. “I am quite an adept advisor. I hope you and Edelgard will seek me out in the future. I am sure I will prove useful again.”

“As am I,” Hubert said.

He turned to leave. As he slipped out of the dining hall he noted, with some surprise, that he meant that, too.


	6. Verdant Rain Moon I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday, readers! As promised, starting this week, we will have weekly updates of this story. Here's the next installment, which features the "Tower of Black Winds" mission, a lot of angst, and some unexpected romance. But don't worry, Hubert/Ferdinand is definitely endgame, it's just going to take them a while to get there. 
> 
> This turned out to be an unusually long chapter, so I'm going to break it up between this week and next week. Sorry to the Hubert fans out there, it'll be one more week before we get to see what he's been up to (beyond seething with jealously). 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and please leave feedback! I love to hear from y'all.
> 
> PS: There's a niche Office (US) reference in this chapter. Whoever finds it will have my eternal respect.

After his dinner with Hubert, Ferdinand found his status much elevated in Edelgard’s eyes. Just the next day, she commended him on his depth of knowledge of ancient weaponry. She began to greet him warmly when they passed in the hallways, even pausing to ask about his horses or congratulate him on advancing to the cavalier class. On one occasion, she even asked his help to correct her axe-wielding form. 

Ferdinand could not quite believe his luck. He had always wanted to be included in Edelgard’s inner circle and finally, after years of trying, he had wormed his way in. His plan, appealing to Hubert in order to catch Edelgard’s attention, seemed to have worked.

Ferdinand was determined to continue his upward social trajectory. A one-off conversation about the Sword of the Creator could not sustain his value in Edelgard’s eyes for long. He would need to continue to impress her with feats of great strength, wit, and intelligence. To do that, he would need to continue to impress Hubert. And if he felt a small twinge of pleasure when Hubert looked at him without disdain, well, that was only to be expected. Everyone liked to feel liked, after all. 

The lance tournament presented itself as the perfect opportunity. Ferdinand had been training with a lance for years now and had grown quite adept at wielding it. He was certainly one of the best Black Eagles when it came to the lance. Or so he thought, until he voiced this to Caspar when enrolling for the tournament. 

“Yeah, you’re pretty good,” Caspar said, taking down Ferdinand’s name, “but I think that new guy is better.”

“What new guy?” 

Ferdinand had not heard of any students transferring into the Black Eagles. Then again, he was rarely the first to hear new gossip.

“You’ve seen him around before: Sylvain Jose Gautier,” Caspar said, adopting a stretched out pose with his hands behind his head, a decent imitation of Sylvain. “I saw him in action when I helped the Blue Lions with a mission. He’s pretty good with a lance. Not as strong as me, though.”

“I am more than ‘pretty good,’” Ferdinand said. He stewed for a moment, but curiosity got the better of him. “Why’s he joining the Black Eagles anyway?”

“He said he wanted to learn from a professor with real-life combat experience,” Caspar said, “but I think he’s just trying to flirt with Professor Byleth. Gross!”

That would certainly follow from Sylvain’s reputation, Ferdinand thought to himself. He found himself slightly annoyed by the news of this new arrival. Would Sylvain prove to be yet another competitor for Edelgard’s attention? He was already upending the existing structures, having apparently convinced Caspar of his lance prowess. 

“Has Sylvain signed up for the tournament?” Ferdinand asked, trying to peer at the sheet in Caspar’s hands.

“Not yet,” Caspar said. “But don’t worry, there’s gonna be lots of tough competitors. Good luck!”

Ferdinand was confident he would win the tournament. But this new development shook him. He knew few facts about Sylvain. He was a Crest-bearing noble, though Ferdinand could not recall which Crest he possessed. He was a close personal friend of Prince Dimitri. And he flirted as easily as he breathed. Ferdinand had never met the man, let alone seen him in battle. He had no sense of how to gauge his capacities. But he was sure that the two of them would not make for fast friends. Anybody with such lascivious tendencies, Ferdinand thought indignantly, would surely not agree with his own noble sensibilities. 

After spending the day wondering about Sylvain’s abilities and convincing himself that he was better, Ferdinand finally had the opportunity to meet his would-be opponent at dinner. Daphnel stew was being served, a sure favorite that drew most of the students and even some knights to the dining hall. Ferdinand found a seat between Bernadetta and Caspar. His newest classmate, Sylvain, joined them, seating himself without waiting for an invitation. 

“I’m Sylvain,” he said, sticking out a hand in greeting. “I don’t think we’ve met yet. I just transferred into the Black Eagles.”

Ferdinand accepted the handshake, smiling politely. “Yes, Caspar informed me this morning.” 

The gossip that had carried stories of Sylvain’s skirt-chasing had left out one important fact. The man was strikingly handsome. He had a warm smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was lanky, easily taller than Ferdinand, but carried himself with grace and ease. He managed to walk the line between informality and sloppiness. His noble upbringing was clear in his careful manners. But this was in stark contrast to his shock of red hair, unkempt in a way that Ferdinand suspected was intentional, and his open shirt front, flaring to reveal the tan freckled skin of his neck. 

“Sylvain!” Caspar yelled, despite being two feet away from the man. “You haven’t signed up for the lance tournament yet! I told Ferdinand you could beat him!”

Sylvain chuckled. “I don’t know about that. Ferdinand, I’ve heard you’re one of the best cavaliers around.”

At that, Ferdinand could not help but preen. “Well, I only recently advanced to cavalier, but I have always been quite gifted with the lance and I excel at riding. Why, even Edelgard cannot outpace me on horseback.”

“There you have it, Caspar,” Sylvain said, flashing a genuine smile at Ferdinand. “I can’t possibly compete with that.”

“We shall see on Saturday,” Ferdinand said, feeling a bit warm under the collar. “I am sure you will be a formidable opponent.”

“No, I’m not competing.” Sylvain shrugged. “The Professor is already making me do a ton of work to catch up with you guys. I didn’t feel like adding a tournament to all of that.”

“What? What kind of soldier doesn’t want to fight?” Caspar asked through a bite of stew. “I want these guys to see you in action.”

To punctuate his outrage, Caspar gesticulated wildly with his fork, sending bits of Daphnel stew flying. Ferdinand wished that Linhardt were around; only he could convince Caspar to adopt some semblance of table manners. But the green-haired mage was nowhere to be found. Likely napping, Ferdinand guessed. 

“I’d much rather see how you Black Eagles do things,” Sylvain replied, unfazed by Caspar. “Besides, we’ll all get to work together during this month’s mission. Any word on what that is yet?”

“N-not yet.” Bernadetta piped up, face half-hidden behind Ferdinand. 

“Do you not feel concern about leaving the Blue Lions behind?” Ferdinand asked. “I understood that they were close friends of yours.”

“They were,” Sylvain agreed. “They are. I just… I need some space from the Kingdom. From its culture, the expectations, all of it. And I like this new Professor. Besides…” He adopted a sleazy grin and winked at Bernadetta. “All the prettiest girls are Black Eagles.” 

Bernadetta did not reply but turned a brilliant shade of scarlet and busied herself with her stew. He really did flirt as second nature, Ferdinand noted. 

“I won’t be all alone though,” Sylvain continued, undeterred by Bernadetta’s reaction. “I’m pretty sure Fe is going to join us too.”

“Fe?” Ferdinand said.

“Felix Fraldarius,” Sylvain said. He looked around the dining hall. “I don’t see him here now, but I’ll point him out later. I’m trying to get him to join the Black Eagles. I think it’ll happen. He’s pretty obsessed with sparring the Professor.”

“Oh, I know him. The swordsman,” Caspar said.

Ferdinand recognized the name, associated it with a dark-haired scowling Kingdom noble. He had overheard Felix in the training grounds once, talking about taking on Byleth. He had not realized just how taken Felix was with the Professor — enough to leave his classmates and childhood friends for the opportunity to learn from her. 

“Two new classmates,” Ferdinand murmured. “That will be interesting.”

“More like, two new sparring partners!” Caspar crowed. 

Over the course of dinner, Ferdinand found his animosity towards Sylvain rapidly fading. The man did not appear interested in competing with him, but he was not dismissive of him either. If anything, he was genuinely interested in Ferdinand, propping up his chin with his hand and watching as Ferdinand delved into a brief lecture of the history of combat tournaments in Adrestia. He even liked Ferdinand’s jokes, throwing his head back to laugh so loudly that others in the dining hall turned to look. Ferdinand felt alight in the spotlight of Sylvain’s attention. This was how it should be, Ferdinand thought to himself. He was too interesting, too special, too talented to be shunted to the side like Hubert and Edelgard always did. He belonged in the limelight, even if that limelight was born of a frankly very handsome noble’s flirtatious gaze.

Dinner ended and Ferdinand found himself wishing for an excuse to tarry longer. Unable to come up with anything, he carried his dirtied plate to the front of the room and stepped into the cool evening. It was the Verdant Rain Moon and the air was laden with the promise of rain. Dark clouds loomed on the horizon, blotting out the stars. 

“The moon is huge tonight.”

Sylvain appeared next to Ferdinand, throwing an arm around the shorter man’s shoulders. It was a practiced motion, one that he had certainly tried on many a pretty girl before this. But Ferdinand could not quite bring himself to mind. He leaned in slightly, taking in the heady scent of Sylvain’s cologne. 

“I- I suppose it is,” he said, realizing he was meant to reply. “It is beautiful.”

“Are you headed to your room?” Sylvain asked, guiding them in the direction of the dorms. 

“Um, yes, I think I will turn in for the night,” Ferdinand said. “I have an assignment to finish before class tomorrow.”

“Let me walk you back.”

It was more a firm suggestion than a request, but Ferdinand did not consider refusing it. He fell into step with Sylvain, enjoying the weight of the arm around him. When was the last time someone had touched him like this? Had sought him out for his company? Emboldened, Ferdinand snaked an arm around Sylvain’s waist. The two made their way back to the dormitory in amicable silence, the sound of footsteps crunching through grass punctuating their steps. 

Once outside of his dormitory door, Ferdinand lost his boldness. He had no intention of inviting Sylvain in. His room was in a state and besides, he had only just met the man. What would people say? The very thought of it, ushering Sylvain in and doing whatever one pleased behind closed doors, sent a rush of blood to Ferdinand’s cheeks. He pulled away from Sylvain, suddenly self-conscious. 

“Thank you for escorting me back,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I will take my leave now.”

Sylvain smirked and raked his eyes over Ferdinand, causing the shorter man to blush even harder. 

“Good night.”

Sylvain took Ferdinand’s gloved hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. The warmth of his mouth was muted by the fabric, but it was unmistakably there. And then, as quickly as it had arrived, the feeling was gone. Ferdinand watched as Sylvain sauntered off towards his own dormitory, trying to ignore the double time rhythm of his heart. 

Much to his delight, Ferdinand won the lance tournament a few days later. An overly-enthusiastic Caspar tried to lift him on his shoulders, resulting in the two tumbling in a heap on the training ground floor. But even such horseplay could not damper Ferdinand’s mood. He had won! He had proven himself to be the best!

He traipsed around the monastery to bring the news to his classmates, announcing his victory to anyone who would hear him. He found Linhardt drowsing in the sunshine outside the training grounds, lounging in a cat-like sprawl on a patch of grass. Linhardt did not seem that impressed by Ferdinand’s feat. He responded to the news by nodding and snuggling further into the grass. Ferdinand ran into Petra and Dorothea in the greenhouse. They congratulated him politely, but quickly returned to their own conversation, murmuring in low tones about the differences between Brigid and Fodlan’s flowers. 

“Fodlan has many lovely flowers,” he heard Petra say as he left, “but none as lovely as you.”

Dorothea’s giggle rang in his ears.

He beat a path towards the Black Eagles’ classroom. He would find an audience to hear of his accomplishments! The classroom was mostly empty. Books were strewn across the tables. The chairs were in a disarray. The chalkboard at the front of the class featured a half-erased diagram of an attack formation. In the far corner, Edelgard and Hubert pored over a hefty tome.

“There you are!” Ferdinand announced his presence.

Edelgard snapped shut the book in her hands. Tucking it under her arm, she adopted a polite smile. Hubert looked up at Ferdinand, annoyance flashing across his features.

“You were looking for us?” Edelgard asked.

“Indeed! I came to report my latest accomplishment,” Ferdinand said. He drew himself up to full height and grinned broadly. “I won the lance tournament.”

“That’s all?” Hubert asked cooly. “And here I thought you had something important to say for once.”

“Hubert,” Edelgard said warningly. 

Hubert arched an eyebrow but did not continue. He sneered down at Ferdinand.

“I have proven myself the strongest lance-wielder at the monastery,” Ferdinand said. “That is certainly important!”

“Congratulations, Ferdinand,” Edelgard said. Her tone was dismissive. “We have some private matters to discuss.”

“Go tell your news to someone who actually cares,” Hubert said, waving Ferdinand off. “Maybe that new boyfriend of yours will be bothered.”

“I — Sylvain is not my boyfriend!” Ferdinand snapped.

“Oh please, everyone saw that idiotic star-struck look on your face the other night,” Hubert retorted. “All he had to do was bat his eyes in your direction and you were putty in his hands.” He scoffed. “I would have thought the high and mighty Ferdinand von Aegir would have less pedestrian taste.”

Ferdinand gaped. He tried to conjure up some biting remark, but he did not feel anger. He felt deflated. What would it take to impress these people? What could he possibly do to please them? Was he really so repugnant? He glanced at Edelgard, who shrugged apologetically before turning away. Hubert stared daggers into Ferdinand. 

With nothing left to say, Ferdinand made a hasty retreat to the tea gardens. His eyes stung but he blinked back tears. It would not do to cry here. It would not do to cry at all. He was done wasting his energy on Hubert, a man so determined to look down at him. Even Edelgard was too fickle to please. She had praised him so about the Sword of the Creator, but now she would not even spare him a moment. Damn them! They did not appreciate what Ferdinand had to offer.

At that moment, Sylvain strolled through the tea garden. He caught sight of Ferdinand, who hastily tried to rearrange his expression into something less distraught. It did not work.

“Who pissed in your teapot?” Sylvain asked, dropping onto the stone bench Ferdinand was perched on.

The sheer vulgarity of the statement caught Ferdinand off-guard. He completely forgot to stew in self-pity. Despite himself, he giggled. Something inside him shifted and he began to chuckle. It was as if a dam had broken and a torrent of laughter sprang forth. He could not stop himself. He shook with mirth.

“I am not sure what you mean,” he said finally, wiping happy tears from the corners of his eyes. 

“Well, when I first saw you, you looked pretty unhappy,” Sylvain said.

He put a hand under Ferdinand’s chin, tilting it up to be level with his own face. 

“There’s nothing I hate more than a pretty face marred by a frown.”

Ferdinand felt his face grow warm. “I was just — oh, it is nothing. In fact, I have some good news to share.”

“Go on, then.”

“I won the lance tournament today.”

“Incredible!” Sylvain wrapped Ferdinand in a bear hug. He lingered for a moment, before pulling back to look Ferdinand in the eyes. “I knew you would. I’ve seen you train. You’re amazing with a lance.”

“Do you truly think so?” Ferdinand basked in the praise. 

“Of course! You’re the best at lance in the entire monastery” Sylvain said, sweeping an arm out to gesture at the deserted tea garden. 

“I suppose so,” Ferdinand said. 

“Don’t play at being modest,” Sylvain said. “I’ve heard you bragging too much to fall for that.”

Ferdinand chuckled. “You know me so well.”

“Not well enough.” Sylvain adopted a serious expression. He pushed Ferdinand’s bangs out of his eyes, letting his fingers scrape against his scalp. “I’d like to get to know you better.”

“I feel the same.”

Ferdinand met Sylvain’s gaze. There was a challenge there, one that Ferdinand could not quite decipher. Sylvain’s interest was clear. He looked at Ferdinand as if he were the most dazzling feature of the tea garden. He looked as if there was no one else but the two of them. His face was so close, Ferdinand could make out the tiny freckles that dusted his nose. It would be so easy to tilt forward a few degrees. All it would take was one minuscule twitch in the right direction. Sylvain was a taut line beside him, the strong heft of his right thigh burning against Ferdinand’s left. Ferdinand glanced down at Sylvain’s mouth, then back at his eyes. It would be so easy. 

“Students, your professor is looking for you.”

Seteth’s stern voice shattered the silence of the tea garden. Ferdinand reeled back and jumped to his feet.

“What? Who? I will be right there!” he stammered. 

Unable to make eye contact with anyone, he rushed out. 

“But I haven’t told you where she is!” Seteth called after him. “She is in the library.”

“I’ll meet you there, I guess,” Sylvain called.

Ferdinand tossed an apologetic look over his shoulder and broke into a run. He did not stop until he made it up to his dormitory. He shut the door behind him, chest heaving from the effort. He could be a few moments late to meet the professor. He needed to sort himself out, first. 

The library was full by the time Ferdinand arrived. The Black Eagles were arranged in a half circle of chairs around Byleth, who was perched on a tabletop in her typical informal fashion. Ferdinand pulled a chair up beside Sylvain, nodding a greeting to his classmates. He resolutely ignored Hubert’s icy stare, which flickered between him and Sylvain. 

“Great, everyone is here,” Byleth said. “Let’s get started. I just received our mission assignment this month.”

“Is it those bandits that have been terrorizing the eastern trading route?” Caspar asked.

“We have to go all the way out east? Count me out,” Linhardt moaned, slumping into Caspar’s side. 

“Will we be assisting the Knights of Seiros?” Petra said. “I would be liking greatly to work with Thunder Catherine again.”

“Ooh, someone likes a Knight of Seiros,” Dorothea teased. 

The two women collapsed into giggles. Byleth waved her arms, trying to regain control of the classroom. 

“Congrats, you’ve all guessed wrong,” she deadpanned. “We have a personal connection to the mission, actually, via our newest recruit.”

Beside Ferdinand, Sylvain stiffened. 

“We have been invited onto Kingdom territory by the Margrave Gautier to recover a stolen Hero’s Relic, the Lance of Ruin,” Byleth said. 

The room erupted into chatter. No one could believe the news. Hero’s Relics did not simply get stolen. They were fiercely guarded by the families that possessed them, passed down from generation to generation with great care. For one to be taken like this was unheard of. Ferdinand noticed, however, that Sylvain did not make a sound. If anything, he grew ever tenser, folding onto himself in his chair. 

“For House Gautier to invite us onto their land, they must be desperate,” Hubert said. “Good thing we are here to do their dirty work for them.”

“Typical nobles,” Dorothea huffed. She tossed her long auburn hair over her shoulder. “Having poor students clean up their messes.”

“I want to see this Relic,” Caspar said. “It must be a super powerful weapon. I want one!”

“I- I- I would rather not go,” Bernadetta said from a distant corner of the library. “I don’t want to fight thieves!”

“They must be particularly skilled thieves,” Edelgard said, “to have stolen a Hero’s Relic.” 

“It’s my brother.”

Sylvain’s voice was lifeless, a dry imitation of his usual lilt. A hush settled over the room as every Black Eagle stared at him. 

“Your brother?” Edelgard repeated, incredulous. “Professor, is this true?”

“Miklan Gautier led a band of thieves into Gautier territory,” Byleth said, “and acquired the Lance of Ruin. He’s now holed up in a tower between Fraldarius and Galatea territories: the Conand Tower. We’ll travel there at the end of the month to retrieve the Lance.”

“I’m so sorry my older brother is causing you all this hassle,” Sylvain said. He stared down at lap, fists clenched. “I’ve always thought he was a piece of garbage, but I never thought he’d steal the Relic. I can’t wait to see his face when he realizes I’m in the group that was sent to take him down.”

Before anyone could respond, Sylvain stood up and stalked out of the library. Ferdinand watched him go. He wondered if he should follow. 

“How curious,” Hubert murmured, “that a noble’s son would turn out to be a thief.” 

“Miklan was cast out of House Gautier some years after Sylvain was born,” Byleth said, “because he did not bear a Crest. Seteth tells me it is not an uncommon practice in some Kingdom families.”

Edelgard scoffed. Her light eyes blazed with a strange anger that Ferdinand could not place nor understand. 

“There’s no reason that Crests should have the power to dictate someone’s destiny,” Edelgard said. “He was just another victim of cruel fate. Forsaken by the goddess, who now demands his execution.”

She had a point, Ferdinand realized. How could anyone expect Miklan to be any better than a thief, when his own family had turned their backs on him? It was, as he and Hubert had once discussed, nobility acting less than noble. They had cast out their own, simply because he would never produce Crest-bearing heirs. What sort of system allowed this to happen? What sort of system encouraged it, rewarded it? 

“Sounds like nobility, alright,” Dorothea said. “The second someone isn’t useful to them, they throw him out.”

“I have never had goings to the Kingdom’s north,” Petra said, nodding. “But I hear the people of the north are cold and have much loneliness. Perhaps this is the culture of the people in that place?”

Caspar shrugged. “It’s not that different here,” he said. “I’m a second son, so I get nothing from my family. But I don’t care. I’m going to be the best knight Fodlan has ever seen!”

“But your family never threw you out,” Linhardt said. “Not even when you shacked up with some mage.”

“You’re a noble,” Caspar said. “I bet they’d feel differently if you weren’t.”

“Noble or not, no child deserves to be treated differently for their lineage,” Edelgard said. “They should be able to rise and fall based on their merits, not their blood.”

“Easy enough for you to say, Edie,” Dorothea said. “You’re a princess and exceptionally talented. You’d turn out well either way.”

Edelgard smiled, flattered. “As should you, Dorothea. You’re a gifted sorceress and songstress. Anyone who overlooks you for your blood is a fool.”

“You have been unusually quiet for all this,” Hubert said suddenly, staring at Ferdinand. “What, can’t handle the fact that your new beau has such uncouth relatives?”

“This is a tragic circumstance,” Ferdinand said, choosing to ignore the jibe. He would not give Hubert the pleasure of getting a rise out of him. “It should never have happened. But I will do everything in my power to retrieve the Lance of Ruin.” 

“Of course Ferdie has nothing bad to say about the Gautiers,” Dorothea called out. “Ferdie loves nobility.”

“Mistreating your child because he does not have a Crest is not noble,” Ferdinand insisted.

“I dunno, it seems like it’s a tried and true practice of Kingdom nobility,” Dorothea said. 

“It is not what a true noble would do,” Ferdinand insisted, rising from his seat.

“Alright, alright, let’s save the political squabbles for our trip to the Kingdom,” Byleth interrupted. “We have all month to train for this. I expect you to work your hardest. We need to be in excellent shape to take on Miklan and his men.”

“You’re right, Professor,” Edelgard said. “Do you have any time this evening? I would love to discuss the class’s training program over tea.”

As Byleth and Edelgard began to chat, the meeting was adjourned. Ferdinand hurried back to the dormitories, pausing outside of Sylvain’s door. The light was still on. He knocked once, twice. No one answered. Unsure of himself, Ferdinand retreated to the comfort of his own room, thoughts of family and nobility and Crests swirling about in his mind. 

Ferdinand did not speak to Sylvain for several days, after that. They would lock eyes during Byleth’s lectures. Sylvain would smile and Ferdinand’s stomach would flip-flop. But when Ferdinand tried to catch Sylvain after class, the man would make some excuse and disappear. He was never in the dining halls during mealtimes. Did he even eat? And he certainly never set foot in the training grounds. Ferdinand began to wonder if he would ever speak with Sylvain again. Or had he been discarded once again, cast aside by someone who had convinced him, however briefly, that he was special? 

Not even stable duty the following week could lift Ferdinand’s spirits. He trudged to the stable in the early morning, realizing as he arrived that he did not even know who he would be working with. He hoped it was not Hubert. He could not bear to be sneered at today. But it was Sylvain who greeted him in the stables, a cheerful look on his face. 

“Aren’t I a lucky one?” Sylvain said. “I get stable duty with the horse expert himself.”

Ferdinand smiled wanly. He busied himself with a bale of hay, using a knife to cut the twine holding the bale together. He distributed the hay among the stalls, smiling wider at the horses as they bobbed their heads hungrily. At the end of the stable, one horse nickered loudly. 

“I will get to you soon enough, Angelica,” Ferdinand called out. “No need to be jealous.”

“Hey, Ferdinand, what gives?” Sylvain asked. 

He followed Ferdinand through the stable. Ferdinand continued to ignore him, shoveling oats into buckets. 

“You should put a bucket into each stall,” he said. 

When Sylvain did not move, he grabbed the buckets and began to haul them into the stalls himself. Sylvain watched silently as he dropped off each one, pausing to pet his favorite horses. Some of the horses were going to be ridden in the afternoon. They would need their hooves cleaned. Ferdinand turned to grab a stool but stopped short as Sylvain loomed before him. 

“You can’t just ignore me all day,” Sylvain said.

“There is work to be done. I cannot dally with chit-chat,” Ferdinand said. 

He tried to step around Sylvain, but the taller man blocked his path. Sylvain took Ferdinand’s hand.

“What’s going on, Ferdie?” 

At the sound of that nickname, Ferdinand snatched his hand back. His face burned. Rage bubbled up inside him, threatening to boil over.

“You have avoided me all week,” he snapped. “You have completely ignored me. Did I lose your interest? Well, I am only responding in kind!”

Hurt flashed across Sylvain’s face, then sadness. He took Ferdinand’s hand again, this time refusing to be shaken off. 

“Oh, Ferdinand,” Sylvain said softly, “I’m sorry.” 

The apology did nothing to quell the anger that Ferdinand felt. He screwed his eyes shut. But he could not stop the tears that started to burn paths down his face. 

“I thought you liked me and then you would not even talk to me,” he said. “I am not some plaything that you can pick up and discard as you feel like it.”

“Oh, Ferdinand,” Sylvain repeated. 

He hugged Ferdinand tightly. Ferdinand could feel his anger, once so resolute and certain, begin to slip away. Sylvain pressed his mouth gently to Ferdinand’s hairline. 

“I didn’t mean to discard you,” he said after a long pause. “And I do like you. But this next mission… it’s been keeping me preoccupied. I haven’t thought about anything but my brother for the last few days.”

Ferdinand sniffled against Sylvain’s chest. He scrubbed at his face with both his hands until his skin felt dry. He pulled back and looked up at Sylvain, who met his eyes with concern.

“You did not forget about me?” Ferdinand asked, hating how his voice quavered.

Sylvain cupped Ferdinand’s cheek with his hand. 

“Goddess, no. How could I forget about an absolute vision like yourself?” Sylvain said. 

The flattery worked, as it always seemed to when Sylvain was around. Ferdinand felt his anger dissipate. It was replaced by a deep sense of embarrassment. 

“I must seem like an absolute child to you, then,” Ferdinand said. He curled up onto a nearby stool, covering his face. “To come to you, bawling about being discarded, when you are dealing with far graver issues.”

Sylvain knelt down beside him. He placed a hand on Ferdinand’s back, rubbing a pattern of circles onto his uniform jacket. 

“Not at all,” Sylvain said. “You didn’t know.”

“I knew we would face your brother at the end of this month,” Ferdinand said, peering out from behind his hands. “It was selfish of me to disregard that. I am sorry.” 

Ferdinand took one of Sylvain’s hands and lifted it to his mouth, placing a gentle, chaste kiss on his knuckles. Sylvain’s hands were bare. He flouted the politesse that dictated a noble should keep his hands covered. But Ferdinand did not mind. He reveled in the warmth of the skin against his lips. He marveled at how the ruddiness of each knuckle gave way to milky skin marred by a constellation of shining scars. He laced his fingers with Sylvain’s own, wishing that his own gloves were off. 

“Miklan, my brother, he and I have never gotten along,” Sylvain said. 

His eyes were fixed on some spot in the distance. Ferdinand could see the muscles in his jaw working as he considered what to say next. 

“You do not need to—” Ferdinand began.

“I want to,” Sylvain said. He looked at Ferdinand with something like desperation. “Please.”

Ferdinand nodded. 

“Miklan hated me the moment I was born,” Sylvain continued, “because I bore the minor Crest of Gautier. I can’t say I blame him, though. It was my father’s fault.”

“Margrave Gautier?” 

“Yeah, the very one. He was so happy that I was born, that I had a Crest. He completely forgot about my brother. He didn’t give a shit about Miklan after that. Everything became about me, or, about my blood.”

“Margrave Gautier wanted a Crest-bearing heir,” Ferdinand said. “And so Miklan lashed out at you?”

“To put it mildly,” Sylvain said, squeezing Ferdinand’s hand. “Miklan hurt me, a lot and often. He nearly managed to kill me a couple times. I won’t go into details — it doesn’t help anyone to rehash it now — but it wasn’t good. That was why he was kicked out.”

“To protect you.”

“To protect the Gautier lineage, more like,” Sylvain corrected. “You have to understand, it’s not like my father cares particularly about me or what I want. All he cares about is the blood that runs in my veins. Miklan wasn’t punished for hurting his brother. He was punished for threatening the possibility of Gautier-Crest-bearing babies. Even now, all my father cares about is me finding a good wife to pass on my blood.”

Ferdinand sighed deeply. It was a cruel fate, to be born with or without a Crest, it seemed. Miklan was cast out for not having one, but Sylvain was locked in a cage of expectations the moment he was born. Neither of them were spared. And they were the lucky ones, nobles! It was even worse for those who did not win the lottery of their birth. They were stuck scraping by to survive, with only the most exceptional among them rising to higher ranks in society. He suddenly remembered his tea with Hubert. Was this what he had meant by ‘the cracks in the very foundation of our continent?’ He shook his head free of the thought. It would not do to consider politics when he had a friend to console.

“I am sorry, Sylvain,” Ferdinand said at last. “I have a great deal of sympathy for your situation. I am no stranger to bad fathers.”

“The Duke Aegir isn’t all that great, huh?”

“He is a greedy man who has strayed far from the righteous path,” Ferdinand said. “He has sullied the von Aegir name. He is cruel, cowardly, wholly despicable. I intend to bring him to justice, after I graduate. To hold him accountable for his crimes.”

“I hope you do it,” Sylvain said. 

His voice was quiet, so quiet that Ferdinand had to lean in to catch his words. Sylvain met his eyes steadily. 

“I know I’ll be forced into some politically convenient marriage in a few more years. But at least, I can do what I want until then.”

“And what do you want?” Ferdinand asked breathlessly. 

Sylvain leaned in closer. Ferdinand considered looking away or protesting or backing up, but none of those options were as appealing as what was right in front of him. Fighting every polite instinct in his body, he stepped forward. He closed the distance between them and sighed into a kiss. Every fiber of his being stood at attention, every sense dulled but for the feeling of warm, firm lips against his. Why had this seemed like a bad idea? 

Sylvain began to pull away, but Ferdinand balled a fist in the front of his uniform, keeping him in place. He was a man dying of thirst finally offered a drink — how could he stop at one sip? He returned again and again to the well of soft sounds and warm sensation that was Sylvain, his strong arms, his stalwart chest, his skillful tongue. There was no slaking his want. Ferdinand considered, briefly, the sheer indecency of this. It was only a matter of time before someone wandered in. Was there anything less noble than a spur-of-the-moment roll in the hay? Then again, was there anything more appealing? At last, though, the thought of Seteth coming across the scene in the stables forced him to break away.

“Is this why you like stable duty so much?” 

Sylvain was the first to speak, voice barely rising above a whisper. 

Ferdinand flushed red. “I do not make a habit of kissing my stable duty partner!” 

“Maybe you should,” Sylvain said. 

He darted out a hand, dragging a thumb across Ferdinand’s lower lip. 

“I would, if I had stable duty with you more often,” he continued. 

And what was Ferdinand meant to say to that? He opted to stare into Sylvain’s eyes, warm and kind and searching. He could barely think over the rush of blood in his ears, let alone banter. He realized, belatedly, that he still had a firm grasp on Sylvain’s shirtfront. He released it and hurried to smooth the wrinkles he had left in the material.

“I am sorry,” he stammered, pressing down the folds of the fabric in vain. “I did not mean—”

“It’s fine, you’re okay. Alright, stop that!”

To punctuate his exclamation, Sylvain caught Ferdinand by the hands, forcing him to stop. 

“What’s got you so stressed?” Sylvain asked. 

“I am not stressed,” Ferdinand said, trying not to think about the heat from Sylvain’s palms sinking into his. “I just — this is — we’re in the stables, for Goddess’ sake! And this is rather sudden.”

Sylvain grinned. “Oh Ferdie, you can’t tell me you didn’t notice any of my flirting.”

“You flirt with everybody,” Ferdinand remarked drily.

“Yeah, but I mean it with you,” Sylvain replied, squeezing Ferdinand’s hands.

“I think you are just trying to get me to kiss you again,” Ferdinand said.

“Is it working?”

Ferdinand laughed and removed his hands from Sylvain’s grasp. He raked a hand through his hair, trying to make himself look presentable. He resisted the urge to straighten Sylvain’s collar, opting instead to look pointedly at the entrance.

“The stables are hardly the appropriate place for such behavior,” he said. 

“Well, what about your room, then?” Sylvain asked unabashedly. 

“You are very forward,” Ferdinand said, looking anywhere but at Sylvain.

“You can’t kiss me like that and then act all demure,” Sylvain said, still smiling. “Let me come visit you, tonight. You can show me how this is properly done.”

“Nothing about this is proper,” Ferdinand said, but he nodded his assent. 

He watched Sylvain leave and sighed heavily. He should feel scandalized. A tiny part of him was scandalized. This was not the prim and polite courtship he was trained in. It was completely outside of the realm of acceptable behavior. He briefly considered calling the whole thing off. It was a one-time mistake, one that would be completely forgotten in the time it would take Sylvain to move on to a new conquest. And yet, Ferdinand knew that when the knock came at his door late that night, he would eagerly usher in this suitor and everything that came with him.


	7. Verdant Rain Moon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand and Sylvain's relationship continues to grow throughout the month. But they must contend with this month's mission: retrieving the Lance of Ruin from Miklan and his band of thieves.

Life shifted noticeably after Ferdinand took up with Sylvain. It was less lonely, time filled with tawdry jokes and peals of laughter and tender touches. The pair spent much of the Verdant Rain Moon inseparably. They took tea together in the gardens (at Ferdinand’s insistence), they raced their horses along the winding paths to Garreg Mach, they exchanged covert glances during Hanneman’s seminars. It was Sylvain who sparked Ferdinand’s interest in magic, although the former took to producing flames while the latter preferred to heal. They studied together, heads bent over the same books in the library on many a late night. They resolutely avoided the topics of one another’s families. Thoughts of the upcoming mission were conveniently ignored. And if Sylvain was particularly withdrawn after each mission planning session, Ferdinand pretended not to notice. Instead, he would cover Sylvain’s broad hand with his own, smile coyly, and ask for a walk back to his room. It was not perfect, but it was enough. 

The Black Eagles teased the pair relentlessly for their affections. Dorothea was the first to notice. Nothing escaped that shrewd woman’s green, hawkish eyes. She accosted Ferdinand at breakfast, throwing her arms around his shoulders as he took a sip of tea. 

“Ferdie!” she cooed in his ear. “What’s the deal with you and Sylvie?” 

Ferdinand managed to avoid being scalded by his tea. He put the teacup down on the dining hall table and fixed Dorothea with a stern look. 

“Since when,” he asked, “have you been interested in my personal affairs?”

“Since it became the only interesting gossip in Garreg Mach, of course,” Dorothea replied, seating herself on the bench beside Ferdinand with a toss of her magnificent mane of auburn hair. “When two eligible noble bachelors like yourselves start making bedroom eyes at each other across the lecture hall, people are bound to talk.”

“Bedroom e— I am sure I do not know what you are talking about,” Ferdinand said. “Besides, you only recently informed me that you hate me. Surely you cannot be interested in gossip about someone you loathe.”

“I’ll hate you a lot less if you dish,” Dorothea said. Her voice was saccharine, but her eyes glinted dangerously. 

“I… I suppose I can confirm that Sylvain and I are seeing each other,” Ferdinand said.

That admission was all it took for the news to spread like wildfire. Most people did not try to discuss the matter with Ferdinand himself, but he could sense that students were talking about him. He did not mind. He always thought he ought to be the center of attention. If romance was what it took to get people to notice him, so be it. Hopefully, they would note his many talents in between whispering about his dating life. Sylvain was less comfortable with his classmates’ reactions, as he informed Ferdinand over tea soon after.

“Dorothea won’t stop asking me how I ‘wooed’ you,” he said wearily. “Her words, not mine.”

“And did you tell her?” 

“Tell her what?” 

“That you batted your eyes at me while we mucked the stables,” Ferdinand said, “and we kissed amid the scent of hay and horse shit.”

Sylvain laughed. “I think my foul mouth is rubbing off on you.”

“I will admit, I only cursed to see you smile.” Ferdinand glanced shyly over his teacup. “I do not intend to make a habit of it, nor let anyone else hear me speak in that manner.”

“I’m honored that you would let your guard down around me,” Sylvain said. “But seriously, people are driving me crazy about this.”

He ran his hand through his hair a few times, each pass causing more red tufts to stand on end. Unable to watch any longer, Ferdinand caught his hands in his own, holding them gently against the tea table. 

“Well, I expect that sort of behavior from Dorothea,” Ferdinand said. “But who else has been bothering you?”

“Felix has been giving me shit for it, but he doesn’t like anyone I date,” Sylvain said. “And Petra keeps asking me about Fodlan courtship rituals —”

“In all fairness, I believe Petra is asking for her own ends,” Ferdinand commented.

“Even so. But the worst has to be Hubert,” Sylvain said.

Ferdinand nearly choked on his tea. “Hubert? What on earth could he have to say about all this?”

“I don’t know, the guy’s weird. He’s never liked me,” Sylvain said. “On my first day as a Black Eagle, he told me I should give up on training, because I’d never be a worthy competitor to his Lady Edelgard.” 

“He says that to everybody,” Ferdinand said. “That’s just how he is.”

“Yeah, I’m used to the Edelgard worship. But last week it got weirder.”

“How so?”

“He cornered me in the library and demanded to know what my ‘intentions’ were,” Sylvain said. “He wouldn’t let me leave until I told him all about how we started dating. I’ll be honest, I don’t love having that guy know so much about my personal life.”

“That is strange,” Ferdinand agreed, sipping his cup of tea thoughtfully.

He imagined the scene: Hubert looming over Sylvain amid the dusty shelves and dim lights, demanding information about his dates. The thought tickled Ferdinand. If he did not know any better he would think Hubert was jealous. But Ferdinand did know better. Years of experience dealing with Hubert told him that, no, Hubert was likely gathering intelligence on all of his classmates. This was simply another instance of his spying tendencies, though more crudely executed than was typical of him. 

“But I do not think you should worry much about it,” Ferdinand continued. “I am sure once the novelty wears off, everyone will move on to something new. In fact, this month’s mission may prove—”

He stopped before he could make it any further, but the damage was done. Sylvain’s easy expression faltered. His brow furrowed. His eyes darkened. 

“Right, the mission.” He looked around the garden, glared at a laughing couple strolling by. “I need to go.”

“Sylvain.” 

Ferdinand started to stand, but Sylvain was much quicker. He vanished from the garden before Ferdinand could stop him. Ferdinand sighed, surveying what remained on the tea table: two lukewarm cups of tea, a half-eaten pastry, and soiled dishes. So much for a pleasant afternoon together. As he cleared the tea table, Ferdinand resolved to avoid the topic altogether. If mention of the mission — only a week away — turned Sylvain sullen and taciturn then he would avoid it altogether.

The night before the mission, Sylvain slipped into Ferdinand’s tent unbidden. Ferdinand, comfortably toasty in his camp bed, protested as Sylvain pressed his cold hands against him. 

“Hey hey! Quit that!” Ferdinand dissolved into quiet giggles. “Someone is going to hear you, if they did not already see you.”

“The whole camp’s deserted,” Sylvain muttered before nuzzling his icy nose into Ferdinand’s neck. “Even if someone saw, who would care? Caspar and Linhardt don’t even try to hide what they’re up to and no one bats an eye.”

“Adrestians tend not to care about matters of the heart too much,” Ferdinand said, surrendering to Sylvain’s ministrations. “Although my father would throw a fit if he knew some Kingdom noble was sneaking into my tent at night.”

“Your father’s opinion means nothing to me,” Sylvain murmured against Ferdinand’s throat. “I’m just doing what everyone expects from me. But I’m sorry to sully your reputation.”

Ferdinand had spent enough time with Sylvain to recognize this, Sylvain at his most barbed and self-loathing. He sighed. 

“You have not sullied anything,” Ferdinand said. “Truly, I do not mind.”

“Then why mention it?”

“I am glad you are here,” Ferdinand said. He propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at Sylvain. “It is a lovely end to a long day of marching.”

He dipped down to press a chaste kiss against Sylvain’s lips. Sylvain hummed in agreement, wrapping his arms around Ferdinand and pulling him close. In a quick motion, he flipped the two of them and settled his weight onto Ferdinand. He kissed Ferdinand fiercely, his tongue a battering ram against the seam of Ferdinand’s lips. Ferdinand opened his mouth into the kiss with a moan, allowing the taste of Sylvain to overwhelm him. They fumbled in the low light of the tent, hands skittering over taut muscle. They rutted against each other with desperation, their motions and noises communicating what words could not. In the dark, all was laid bare, though neither man could acknowledge it. If Ferdinand felt hot tears against his face, he did not know whose they were and he could not stand to ask. 

When Ferdinand woke the next morning, he was alone. He would have thought last night a dream if not for the bouquet of red marks that bloomed brilliantly across his chest. Outside, he could already hear activity in the camp. He could not stay in bed much longer. Ferdinand rushed to dress and emerged from his tent only moments later his typical tight-laced self. A bowl of meal was thrust into Ferdinand’s hands. He accepted it graciously and tried to keep a straight face as he downed the thin, flavorless gruel. The food was a far cry from the decadent meals Ferdinand was used to, but there was nothing to be done. He ate his fill and quickly readied for the march to Conand Tower.

The company marched deep into the eastern Kingdom along the border between the Fraldarius and Galatea territories. The rain beat a steady rhythm down onto them. The roads grew treacherous, dissolving into slow-flowing rivers of mud that would subsume each step that they took. The wind whipped its way through their ranks. Ferdinand shivered but kept marching.The few travelers they encountered jumped out of the way to accommodate the small army. Some stopped and stared. Conand Tower loomed ever larger in the distance. It was a black blot against the gray sky. A tattered flag flapped violently above the tower’s spire. 

“Blue and black,” Sylvain said. It was the first words he had spoken all morning. “Miklan’s colors.”

Byleth glanced back at Sylvain. 

“I know your older brother has been disowned,” she began. 

“He is no longer a member of House Gautier,” Sylvain said, “or my brother. He’s nothing more than a common thief.”

“Are you sure about that?” Byleth said. “This is a difficult situation. I don’t want you to do anything you might regret.”

“Regret? You must be joking,” Sylvain said. “We’re far past the point of regret. And it always falls on the younger brother to clean up the mistakes of their elders, doesn’t it?”

He shouldered his way to the front of the group. Ferdinand watched him go with a rising sense of dread. Overhead, thunder rolled. 

“The weather will only worsen,” Edelgard said. “Let’s move out!”

The doors of Conand Tower fell easily. The company poured in, a vengeful invading force. They battled up the winding tower. War cries echoed. Bursts of magic exploded against the stone walls, showering the army with radiant light. Miklan’s thieves came in waves, surrounding them on all sides and attacking indefatigably. It was a brutal war of attrition. But the thieves could not hold their position forever. Their weapons were impotent against Byleth and the Sword of the Creator. The air crackled around the whip-like blade. It glowed with a life of its own, leaving a fiery trail as it lashed across the room. It felled men by the tens, slashing a path through the thieves.

“Miklan is right ahead. He’s the only one left,” Edelgard said. 

She was composed as ever, but for a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. Dark blood was splattered across her face. It was a stark contrast to her bone-white pallor. 

“He has nowhere to flee,” Hubert said, wearing a menacing smile. “We simply need to finish him off.”

“Don’t hold back for my sake,” Sylvain said. He readied his lance before him. “Miklan is going to pay for everything he has done.” 

As the Black Eagles rounded the final corner of the tower, Ferdinand bit back a gasp. There was Miklan. He was an imposing figure clad in plate-mail and carrying the Lance of Ruin. The Lance glowed in the manner typical of Hero’s Relics, casting a devilish light over Miklan. His features were thrown into sharp relief, exaggerating his scowl and the puckered scar that stretched across his face. Despite his harsh expression, the family resemblance was clear. He had a familiar shock of red hair, though his was dull and matted. Looking past the scar and the toll that years on the road had taken, Ferdinand could see the echo of a handsome man. Catching sight of the Black Eagles, Miklan’s snarled. 

“You brats can’t stop me. The Relic’s power is mine!”

His howls did nothing to slow the Black Eagles approach. Sylvain was at their helm, walking abreast Byleth and Edelgard. He raised his lance to point at Miklan. Catching sight of his younger brother, Miklan’s face cracked into a grimace. 

“Why have you come, you Crest-bearing fool?” he spat. 

“I’m here for the Lance of Ruin, Miklan. Hand it over.” 

Sylvain strode forward and stopped within arm’s reach of his brother, lance aloft. 

“Hand it over,” he continued. “I don’t want to humiliate you, but I will.”

“Hurry up and die already!” Miklan growled. He pointed accusingly at Sylvain. “If not for you… If it hadn’t been for you…”

“Shut up!” Sylvain yelled. “I’m so tired of hearing that. You’ve always blamed me for something that isn’t my fault. That’s going to end today.”

Sylvain leapt forward brandishing his lance. But he struck the empty air. Miklan, for all his size and stature, was quick on his feet. He danced just out of range of the lance, grinning. 

“You’ll never be a match for me, brother,” he crowed. “Even with your Crest, you’re far too weak.”

An arrow whistled through the air, but he knocked it away with ease. 

“Child’s play! Do you really think you weaklings—”

Sylvain rammed his shoulder into his brother’s back. The force of the blow sent the taller man stumbling right into range of Edelgard, who chucked a hand axe with a mighty grunt. It spun through the air before coming to a stop in Miklan’s chest. Miklan hit the ground with a resounding thud. He groaned, but did not loosen his grip on the Lance of Ruin.

Byleth sprinted forward, standing over Miklan with her sword at his neck. At her side, Sylvain and Edelgard stared down at Miklan’s prone body. Sylvain’s face was contorted with hatred. A crack of lightning illuminated him briefly — there was the man Ferdinand knew — before plunging him back into darkness. 

“It’s over, Miklan.” Sylvain’s voice was hollow. "Yield."

“Like hell it’s over,” Miklan said, spitting onto the floor. 

He rose unsteadily to his feet. With his left hand, he grabbed the hand axe and wrenched it out of his body. Blood poured forth but he paid it no mind. He threw the hand axe down at Sylvain’s feet, a challenge. 

“You’re not bad for a bunch of spoiled children,” he said.

Before anyone could react, the Crest Stone lodged in the Lance of Ruin began to glow. It emitted a sickly red light. A piercing howl filled the air that made Ferdinand’s hair stand on end. 

“What the hell?” Miklan brought the Lance up to his face, illuminating his features.

“This is bad,” Byleth murmured. 

She sheathed her sword and grabbed Sylvain and Edelgard by their hands, pulling them back several paces. Just as she did, a foul black substance erupted from the Crest stone. Dark waves of energy radiated off of it. Every fiber in Ferdinand’s being screamed for him to retreat, but he held steady. He had to see what came next. The black substance began to snake its way up Miklan’s right arm. Miklan clawed at it desperately to no avail.

“Get it off me! It won’t come off! Hel—”

His words were choked by the substance, which consumed him. It enveloped his entire body and yet more of the substance poured out of the Lance. There was a flash of lightning, a crack of thunder, and then, silence. Where Miklan had lain was a giant quivering mass of black matter. The matter began to pulse, slowly at first and then rapidly, each contraction sending a quake through the foundations of the tower. With a roar, an enormous beast burst free of the matter, clawing its way out of the mass. 

The Black Beast landed before them on all fours, panting sulfuric flames. Its back was crowned with a row of dark spikes that glinted dangerously. Its eyes glowed the same red as the Lance. It peered curiously at the Black Eagles before throwing its head back to howl. Ferdinand took a step back, terrified. 

“Miklan, is that you?” Sylvain cried. 

His voice cracked in disbelief. He was wild-eyed, unable to understand the display before him. 

“So this is the power of a Hero’s Relic,” Edelgard said. She looked on impassively, watching the Black Beast with cautious interest. “The Crest stone will corrupt its wielder if they do not possess a Crest. How pitiable. The least we can do is put an end to its suffering.”

“End his suffering?” Sylvain echoed. “You want to kill him?”

“It’s no more a man than a feral dog is,” Hubert said. “It should be put down.”

Ferdinand glanced at Sylvain, unsure what to do. Would he strike down his brother, if so commanded? Sylvain took a deep breath before nodding grimly. 

“My brother brought this on himself,” he said. “Let’s finish it.”

Despite their flagging energy, the Black Eagles fought admirably. Ferdinand leapt out of the way of the Beast’s claws, dodging and driving his lance into its haunch. A flurry of arrows rained down on the Beast. Most glanced harmlessly off of his thick hide, but a few well-placed shots from Bernadetta pierced through. The Beast howled in fury, lashing out wildly. It caught Caspar squarely in the gut and the small man was sent flying backwards. He was quickly replaced in the frontlines by Petra, whose eyes flashed with anticipation. She spun a steel axe overhead before bringing it crashing down onto the Beast. In the same instant, Dorothea sprang out behind her, fingers sparking with Thoron. The Beast screeched in pain and reared up on its hind legs. 

“An opening!” Sylvain cried.

Time slowed as Byleth leapt through the air. She flicked her wrist, causing the Sword of the Creator to segment. With another flick, it wrapped around the Beast’s neck. Byleth landed on the ground and gave an almighty tug. Ferdinand shut his eyes. There was a sickly squelching sound, the unmistakable crack of bone, and a thud. Sylvain let out a sob before clapping a hand over his mouth. When Ferdinand looked, it was over. The Black Beast’s body lay lifelessly on its side. Its head had rolled to a far corner, mercifully facing away. A trail of dark ichor pooled on the floor. Sylvain dropped to his knees and reached for the Black Beast’s body, the last remnant of his brother. But before he touched the carcass, it blinked out of existence. In its wake was left the Lance of Ruin and Miklan’s broken body. 

“Goddess, Miklan, you always were a fool,” Sylvain murmured. “You absolute idiot. It didn’t have to end like this.”

Ferdinand walked up to Sylvain and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. But Sylvain shrugged him off. 

“Don’t.”

Ferdinand snatched his hand back like he had been burned. He flushed with embarrassment. 

“I am sorry, Sylvain,” Ferdinand said, too low for anyone else to hear. 

Sylvain said nothing. He reached out to touch his brother’s cheek, but stopped short. He picked up the Lance of Ruin instead. Standing, he turned to survey his classmates. 

“It’s over. I have the Lance,” he said. 

Edelgard glowered over at Miklan’s remains. 

“What a waste of a gifted leader,” she said. “He could have been a great asset to Fodlan. But he was cast aside because he did not have a Crest.”

“It’s a tragedy fit for an opera,” Dorothea murmured in agreement. 

“Have you ever wondered,” Edelgard said, “if the only way to create a truly free world is to dispense with the goddess and the Crests? Do that, and the people will have no choice but to rise and fall by their own merits.”

Ferdinand glanced at Edelgard. Those were seditious words, especially this deep within the pious Kingdom. It was a radical idea to voice. Ferdinand shifted uncomfortably, thinking of the Crest of Cichol that thrummed in his veins. How far had he risen on the strength of his Crest? How far could he rise without one? 

“Enough political talk,” Sylvain said, cutting through Ferdinand’s thoughts. “Let’s get out of here.”

The Black Eagles returned to Garreg Mach in silence. No one spoke, each reflecting on what they had seen. Ferdinand was torn between the desire to cry and the desire to shake Sylvain and scream. Instead, he trudged behind the redheaded man, watching the dejected slump of his shoulders. He realized dimly that there was nothing he could do to comfort him. There was no salve he could offer to dull the sting of loss. 

After Miklan’s death, things changed between Ferdinand and Sylvain. They no longer went on rides or took meals together. They did not laugh in the hallways or hold hands as they walked through the gardens. Sylvain became a nocturnal presence in Ferdinand’s life. He slunk into his room under cover of night and disappeared before daybreak. They spoke little to not at all, the only words between them ones of sheer necessity. It was a solemn loveless arrangement. 

“How long do you intend to carry on like this?” Ferdinand asked one night, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Beside him Sylvain stirred. 

“What do you mean?” His voice was heavy with sleep. 

“Are we to never speak again?” Ferdinand asked. 

He traced a brown water stain on the ceiling with his eyes. He resolutely ignored Sylvain, who had sat up in bed, glowering.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Sylvain said. 

Ferdinand sat up as well. He kneeled before Sylvain and took his hands. 

“Of course there is. Your brother died,” Ferdinand said. “You saw the Professor kill him.” 

“I saw the Professor fell that Black Beast,” Sylvain said. “By that time, it wasn’t Miklan.” 

“I do not think that makes much of a difference.”

“Look, why are we even talking about this?” Sylvain asked. He ran a hand down Ferdinand’s chest. “I can think of much better things for us to be doing.”

“You are avoiding the conversation,” Ferdinand said, brushing Sylvain’s hand away.

“I’m keeping things light.” Sylvain shrugged. “I don’t like to talk about heavy stuff with people I date. It’s not romantic.”

“Is that why the only person you’ve spoken to in the last week is Felix?” 

Sylvain laughed bitterly. “So that’s what this is about. I never took you for the jealous type, Ferdinand.”

“I am not jealous, I am concerned,” Ferdinand insisted.

Sylvain looked unconvinced. 

“Felix is my friend — one of my oldest friends,” he said. “He’s known about Miklan, about everything that bastard put me through, since day one. He was there after Miklan broke my arm, after he pushed me in the well. He was there when Miklan was thrown out.”

“We have talked about Miklan, about what he did,” Ferdinand said.

“It’s not the same,” Sylvain said. “You haven’t lost a brother. You can’t possibly know what it’s like.”

Ferdinand frowned. It was true. As the only son of Duke Aegir, he had never known what it was like to have a sibling, let alone to lose one. But did that render him completely useless? Did that mean he could not help Sylvain, this open painful sore of a person? Did he have nothing to offer beyond the warmth of his bed and his company? 

“I know,” Ferdinand said at last, “but there must be some way I can help. I refuse to simply be a distraction from your pain.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Ferdinand,” Sylvain said, annoyance flashing across his handsome features. “I don’t want to talk about this sort of thing with people I date.”

“Then let us not date.”

The words escaped Ferdinand’s lips before he could think twice. They lay heavily between the two of them, each considering the implications in silence. Ferdinand considered taking it back, but then again, was it really such a bad idea? What he wanted, more than anything, more than touches and kisses and holding hands, was for his dear friend to be alright. Sylvain ran a hand through his hair, causing tufts to stand on end. Ferdinand resisted the urge to reach out and smooth the hair into place. 

“You don’t want to date me,” Sylvain said finally. His voice was empty. 

“I care for you deeply, Sylvain,” Ferdinand said. “But I do not think that this,” he gestured vaguely at the space between them, “is helping you. It is only letting you avoid how you feel. And I do not wish to facilitate that.”

“So what then? You’re just going to dump me because things are difficult?” Sylvain snapped. 

Ferdinand snatched up Sylvain’s hands. He glowered at the man before him, suddenly frustrated. 

“If you think that I will abandon you in your time of need, you have completely misjudged my character,” he said. “I have no intention of letting you leave my life. You are far too dear to me.”

He cautiously placed a hand on Sylvain’s cheek. He was relieved when Sylvain did not brush it away. 

“I want to help you through this,” Ferdinand continued. “I want us to talk about how you are feeling, how I am feeling, how we can move forward as friends and comrades in arms. We have been through something terrible and I do not think this practice of avoiding our emotions is helpful to either of us.” 

Sylvain let out a shaky breath. He chuckled to himself humorlessly.

“You know, I’m much more used to being on the other side of this sort of thing,” he said ruefully. “It’s way worse being the one getting dumped.”

“You are an absolute cad, Sylvain,” Ferdinand said. 

The two of them locked eyes. Ferdinand wondered briefly if he had gone too far. But he need not worry: Sylvain smiled salaciously. 

“You love it,” he said, punching Ferdinand in the shoulder playfully. 

“I suppose I do,” Ferdinand admitted.

The two of them stayed up late that night, joking and talking for the first time in a week. Ferdinand felt the dull ache of loss between his ribs. He could no longer kiss Sylvain or link his arm with his own or announce his affections to the world. It hurt to acknowledge. But the feeling was quickly replaced with a new warmth. He was not losing Sylvain. If anything, he gained something far greater than he had before. It was a painful trade, Ferdinand thought, but it was one he was happy to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the end of Ferdinand and Sylvain dating! But don't worry, Sylvain will still be a part of the Black Eagles moving forward and will likely pop up in the story now and again. Next week, we'll get to check in on Hubert and see what nefarious schemes he's been dreaming up. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Leave a comment if you like. I love hearing from readers!


	8. Horsebow Moon

The Horsebow Moon swept into Garreg Mach on an icy northern breeze. The wind set Hubert’s teeth on edge. Even deep within the dormitories, he could hear its howling. It echoed eerily around the monastery at all hours of day and night, rattling window panes and whistling through chinks in the walls. On rainy days, the noise grew so discomfiting that some students were convinced a ghost haunted the grounds. 

Hubert paid no mind to that talk. Rumors rarely interested him, especially ones so removed from reality as a haunting. Even as he snooped, spying and taking notes on his classmates, he rarely wasted ink marking down claims of a ghost. But it seemed to be all anyone else could talk about. When Hubert escorted Edelgard to breakfast one morning, the dining hall was abuzz with whispers of a ghost.

“Not this again,” Hubert complained as the pair found an empty table. “I have lost my patience for this daft children’s tale.”

“I don’t think this is the usual gossip,” Edelgard said, stirring her oatmeal. “People seem particularly upset this morning.”

Hubert looked around more closely, lingering on the few groups of students huddled together protectively. Edelgard had a point. Their classmates seemed tense, stressed beyond what would be warranted for their typical assignments. There was none of the laughter or shouting that usually echoed through the hall. Hubert considered sidling up to one of the occupied tables and eavesdropping, but he did not need to bother. A name rose loud and clear above the frenetic buzz of voices: the reaper. 

“Lady Edelgard, did you—” Hubert winced at the panic lacing his voice.

“I heard. Do you think it’s our colleague?” Edelgard said. 

Hubert nearly laughed at that. The thought of describing the Death Knight — that creature who was more black steel and malice than man — as a colleague tickled him. They were uncertain allies at best, each side hardly able to control the other. It was a precarious relationship, born out of necessity and a shared foe. But, Hubert supposed, they were lucky things had been collegial so far. He shuddered to imagine the alternative. 

“I should hope not,” Hubert said, his voice returning to its usual timbre. “Per the current plan, there is no reason for him skulking around the monastery grounds.” 

“Who else could it be? He does carry that scythe, after all,” Edelgard said in hushed tones. 

“I do not know. I could pay our colleagues,” he smirked at that, “a visit. Remind them of our agreement.”

“Perhaps.” Edelgard tapped her spoon to her lips thoughtfully. “But if it turns out to be someone else, we will have accused them over nothing.”

“Then I suggest we stay silent for now,” Hubert said. “Whispers alone do not warrant action. Besides, we have more important matters to focus on today.”

“Ah yes,” Edelgard said. She laughed to herself under her breath. “We have a princess to woo.”

That night, after most of the monastery had gone to sleep, Hubert slipped out of his room and into the Black Eagles classroom. He did a quick sweep of the space, checking under the desks and in the corners for any magical means of spying. Finding nothing, he peered out the door and signaled to Edelgard. 

“I’m not sure all this subterfuge is necessary,” Edelgard said as she shut the door behind her. “Who could be listening?”

“There is no harm in being cautious,” Hubert replied. He leaned against a wall beneath the Black Eagle banner. “And I don’t trust Lady Rhea or her new pet project.” 

“I won’t fault you for your feelings on the Archbishop,” Edelgard said, “but we spoke about Byleth. You said you were in favor of making her a part of our plans.”

“That was before she found the Sword of the Creator.”

“It is strange she can use the Sword without a Crest stone,” Edelgard admitted. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “But I cannot help but want her on our side. She commands immense power.”

“She commands a godly power given to her by the Church. If anything, her possession of the Sword and the Crest of Flames is evidence that she is in some way connected to the Church, to Rhea.” 

“And how do you figure that?”

“I am not sure,” Hubert admitted. “But why else would they hand over the Sword to her when they have only known her a few months? It defies all other possibilities.”

“All that means is that Rhea trusts her,” Edelgard shot back. “Not the other way around.”

Hubert opened his mouth to retort, but stopped at the sound of oncoming footsteps. He slipped a hand into his uniform jacket, hand curling around the hilt of a small dagger strapped to his belt. The door to the classroom creaked open an inch, then further, before a familiar lithe figure appeared. Hubert let out a breath he did not know he was holding. 

“Petra, you made it,” he said, releasing his hold on his dagger. 

Petra stood silhouetted against the doorway. She cut a striking figure, even in the dark. Her hair hung in a heavy braid tossed over her shoulder. Her tattoo, a purple mark under her right eye, was a stark brand against her dark skin. At her hip hung a sheathed sword. She stepped into the classroom and shut the door behind her. 

“Good evening, Hubert, Edelgard,” she said. “This is a strange time for a meeting. Dorothea is telling me the nighttime is for lovers. But I do not think that is what you have called me here for.”

Edelgard chucked. “Definitely not.”

She settled at the professor’s desk at the front of the room and gestured at the chair across from it. Hubert watched as Petra settled into the chair. Her expression was calm, but a small wrinkle in her brow betrayed her concern. 

“Then what is the reason for this?” Petra asked. 

Edelgard took a deep breath. Hubert could sense her nervousness. He wished he could reassure her, remind her that everything was proceeding as expected. But it would not do to reveal such weakness now. Instead, he watched from afar as his leader took the first steps to change the shape of Fodlan forever. Edelgard slid a sheet of paper across the desk. Petra glanced down at the page. 

“Is this being a prank?” she asked. Her voice quavered slightly. “This is not real.”

Edelgard reached out and placed a hand over Petra’s. 

“It’s not real now, but it could be,” Edelgard said. 

Petra looked more closely at the paper in her hand. She mouthed the words as she read them. Reaching the end, she glanced sharply up at Edelgard. 

“This treaty, it is having your signature where the Emperor’s name belongs,” she said, pointing at Edelgard’s careful script. “You are really planning to do this? You will be releasing Brigid from its vassalage?” 

“Exactly,” Edelgard said. She cleared her throat. “I have a dream for a better Fodlan and I want your help to build it.” 

Petra nodded slowly, her brow still furrowed. 

“In a few months time, I plan to ascend to the Adrestian throne,” Edelgard explained. “And when I do, my first act as Emperor will be to free Brigid and let it establish itself as a sovereign nation.” 

“Why would you be doing this?” Petra asked.

Edelgard’s eyes flashed. “I believe in a world where people are ruled by their own. It is a grave injustice, what was done to Brigid. The people of your nation should not be lorded over by those of Fodlan. They deserve independence.”

Hubert bit back a smile. This was his liege at her very best, composed but passionate, calm but ardent. His heart could not help but leap as she laid out their secrets before Petra. He had been right to suggest the Brigid princess as the first one to hear of this scheme. Petra was no match for Edelgard, but she possessed many of the qualities that made the latter such an effective ruler. She had her people’s best interests at heart. She was a tremendous warrior. She had the audacity to imagine a better world.

“You will be giving this to me, for nothing?” Petra asked. 

“It would require your grandfather’s assent, of course,” Edelgard said. “But yes. It is unconditional and freely given.”

Petra stared down at the treaty incredulously, then back at Edelgard. A tiny smile danced across her face. Her hands trembled every so slightly, shaking the page she held. But she allowed herself only a moment of shock. She put the treaty down, smoothing its edges against the desk, and took a steadying breath. Her expression slipped back into placidity. 

“That being said,” Edelgard continued after a beat, “I do have a favor to ask of Brigid, as an equal and an ally. You are free to refuse. It will not affect this treaty in any way.”

“Do not be keeping me in suspense,” Petra said. 

“My second act as Emperor will be to declare war on the Church of Seiros.”

If Petra was shocked, she did not show it. Her composure was admirable in the face of outright treason. She leaned back in her chair and threw her braid over her shoulder.

“You are intending to attack the Church, this Church?” She gestured around her at the monastery. “Why?”

“They have fooled the people of Fodlan,” Edelgard said. “They are devious creatures, not humans. And they have used the authority of religion to rule this continent. They divided us into the Empire, the Kingdom, and the Alliance to keep us weak. They spread a false doctrine to keep us from learning the truth. I must wrest power from their grasp and restore it to the people. I want Fodlan to rule Fodlan.”

“So you are granting Brigid independence, then fighting for your own?” Petra said. 

“Precisely. But I won’t stop there,” Edelgard said. She splayed her hands on the tabletop. “I am disgusted by the power that Crests have over this continent. It has hurt too many people. It ensures that commoners are unable to rise in station, while rewarding indolent nobles who do nothing. I want to excise the current political system and replace it with one where everyone is judged on their own merits. Let people’s abilities determine their station, not their birth.”

“And I want your help,” Edelgard continued. “The Church is powerful, and going to war against it means surely the Kingdom will retaliate. I cannot defeat them on my own.”

Petra cocked her head to one side. She watched Edelgard for a full minute — Hubert anxiously counted off the seconds — without responding. She wore her impassive expression like a mask, giving away nothing. 

“Well, what say you, my comrade in arms?” Edelgard asked at last. 

That made Petra smile. She always did have a fondness for her teammates, family forged in battle, as she put it. 

“I am not fully understanding why you hate the Church,” she began, “but I am knowing the wish for independence. I am understanding the longing to be ruled by your own.”

“Then you will help us?” Edelgard asked. 

“Tell me this, Edelgard. What will be stopping me from foiling your plot? What if I would be telling the Church of your ideas?” Petra asked. 

Hubert frowned. Things had been going well, but this was an unexpected threat. Would the princess not side with them after all? His fingers twitched. But Edelgard did not seem to mind.

“You’re right that I cannot stop you,” she admitted. She twirled a finger around a strand of her white hair idly. “You could reveal everything to Rhea. I would likely be executed. Hubert, too.” She smiled wolfishly. “But the dream of an independent Brigid will die with me.”

“You have been giving this plot much thinking,” Petra said, unperturbed. She drummed her fingers on the desk. “If Brigid is becoming free, it will be vulnerable to other hungry nations. Dagda, Albinea, Morfis, they will all be coming. We will be spending our first days of independence fighting to be keeping it.”

“Adrestia protects its allies,” Edelgard said. “We could bolster your defenses, send battalions to augment your own forces, patrol the sea with a navy dedicated to Brigid’s protection.”

“I am not wanting your protection,” Petra said, raising her chin in defiance. “To be living under your shadow is not better than being a vassal. But if Brigid fights in this war, we are establishing our sovereignty. We will be showing the world that Brigid is a strong nation.”

“You will fight to prove your power, then?” Edelgard said. 

“Yes. I must speak to my grandfather to be having certainty, but I am in agreement,” Petra said. “Brigid will join you in your quest for independence. And we will be having our own independence as well.”

She shook Edelgard’s hand firmly. Hubert let out his breath with a hiss. They had planned this, predicted every one of Petra’s possible reactions and determined how to respond. And Edelgard, as expected, had played her role perfectly. The first steps of their plan were in place, sealed on the honor of these powerful women. Hubert smirked to himself as Edelgard walked Petra out of the classroom. Things were falling into place, right underfoot of the Church of Seiros. By the time the Church realized its foundations were crumbling, it would be far too late. 

In this manner, Edelgard and Hubert planned out clandestine meetings with all of the Black Eagles, save for the house’s new Kingdom recruits, Felix and Sylvain. While those two had reasons to dislike the Kingdom and the Crest system, proposing they join in on high treason against their childhood friends would be reckless. Instead, Edelgard and Hubert focused on their Adrestian classmates. Months of careful research on Hubert’s part informed how they would convince each of their classmates. They would slowly expand the circle of people who knew of their plans. Edelgard would sow the seeds of dissent in their minds. And when the time was right, she would reap the rewards in the form of a coalition of Black Eagles to rebel against the Church of Seiros. But before Hubert and Edelgard could speak to their next mark, another part of their careful plans went awry. 

It began on a dull day in class. Hubert was struggling to stay focused as Byleth went through the nuances of swordplay. He was too busy reveling in the successful agreement with Petra to pay any attention to the lecture. He glanced over at Petra, who was carefully copying a diagram from the board onto her notes. She managed secrecy well; despite her knowledge of Edelgard’s seditious plot, she behaved as if everything were fine. Hubert knew she would handle this well. The princess had veins of ice. But what of his other classmates? 

Hubert looked over at Ferdinand. He had rallied hard against the idea of including Ferdinand in their plans. The von Aegir brat was too skittish, a slave to his emotions, completely unsuited to secrecy. Besides, he was a fervid devotee of the cult of nobility. How could this noblest of nobles join a cause that sought to uproot everything he held dear? But Edelgard would not hear of his objections. 

“For all of his ostentation, he would make a useful ally,” she had said. “He has a tactical mind and an impressive knowledge of warfare. Besides, he’s gotten quite close with Sylvain. Perhaps he could convince the Kingdom noble to join us.”

“They broke up,” Hubert had replied. 

Edelgard had laughed. “And how do you know that? Very concerned with Ferdinand’s love life, are you?”

“It is my duty to keep close tabs on all of our classmates,” Hubert had said, fighting the rising color in his cheeks.

Edelgard had said nothing, but had chuckled to herself. Hubert had not objected to Ferdinand’s inclusion in their plans after that. 

The door to the classroom burst open. Seteth strode in, looking unusually disheveled and wild-eyed. 

“Professor, I must speak to you immediately,” he said. “It’s an urgent matter.”

Byleth looked up at Seteh and stopped writing. A quick glance was all it took to know that something was amiss. 

“What’s wrong?” Byleth asked. 

Seteth shifted to address both Byleth and the students. His brow furrowed as he announced, “Flayn has gone missing.”

The students, who had been watching the exchange quietly, erupted into chatter. 

“It was the Death Knight, wasn’t it? The reaper?” Caspar called out above the din. 

Seteth’s frown deepened. 

“I wish that I knew for certain. There are troubling rumors about this Knight,” Seteh said haltingly. “The people claim he is coming to claim their souls with a blade. But the Knights of Seiros have found no evidence of this man.”  
At the mention of the Death Knight, Hubert glanced over at Edelgard. She was unfazed. She jerked her head towards Seteth. They needed to keep listening. Seteth closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. 

“You must find Flayn,” he entreated Byleth. “I don’t know what I would do if something happened to her.”

“What do you need us to do?” Byleth said. 

“The Knights are searching the town,” Seteth said. “You and your students must search the monastery again. Do not overlook any details. I will let Lady Rhea know you have been informed of your orders.” He paused before clasping Byleth’s shoulder tightly. “Please find her.”

He hurried out of the room, his cloak fluttering nervously in his wake. The students, who had been briefly quelled, burst into chatter once again. Some debated whether the Death Knight was to blame. Others guessed at where Flayn could be. Dorothea wondered aloud, with an impish smile on her face, whether Flayn had run off with a handsome knight, leaving her over-protective brother behind. Hubert did not join in on the conversation. Instead he stewed. He was certain the Death Knight was involved. The man had been skulking around the monastery for days. Hubert cursed under his breath. He had dismissed Edelgard’s concerns, insisting that they did not need to rein the Death Knight in. But now, he was meddling with the monastery’s inhabitants. He may have kidnapped the Flayn! Hubert knew he needed to fix this. Otherwise, their entire plan could go up in flames. 

“If we all work together, I’m sure we can find Flayn.”

Edelgard’s cool voice was a balm to Hubert’s frenzied mind. He refocused and looked up at his liege. She had stood up at her desk, towering authoritatively over her classmates. 

“I still think she ran off,” Dorothea said. “I’d do anything to escape that big old bore.”

“She may not have. For her sake, I suggest we assume she was abducted and begin an investigation,” Edelgard said. “Who benefits from kidnapping her? Let’s gather all the information we can on anyone who’s been acting strangely.”

Byleth nodded. “We will all split up and question different members of the monastery, myself included.” 

She began to write their names on the board, assigning each of them to a distinct part of the monastery. 

“Be sure to speak to everyone. You never know who may have heard something,” she said. “This is an urgent matter. Let us move out at once.”

With a nod, she dismissed them. The Black Eagles poured out of their classroom, everyone eager to hunt down a clue. Hubert caught up with Edelgard as she exited the classroom. 

“Well?” he murmured. 

“Not now,” Edelgard said, glancing around. “Work on your assignment. Let’s speak this evening.”

Hubert nodded and hurried away. Despite Edelgard’s assurance that they would find Flayn, his mood only worsened throughout the day. He was assigned to search the kitchens, though why anyone thought a missing girl would be found within their grain store was anyone’s guess. He emerged several hours later, tired and shaking loose oats from his clothing, with nothing to show for it. This whole charade of searching for Flayn infuriated him. It was clearly the Death Knight’s doing. Their control over the maniacal man was looser than they had hoped.

Hubert voiced this opinion to Edelgard during their evening stroll, a circuitous path through the town outside the monastery designed to avoid roving patrols and curious ears. 

“I agree, he is unstable at best. I do not know his intentions regarding Flayn, but I can only assume that Those Who Slither have commanded this,” Edelgard said. 

She held Hubert’s elbow as they walked, looking to all who might see them like a pair of lovers enjoying the crisp evening air. Hubert felt at peace with Edelgard on his arm. It was his natural place, where he truly belonged. Briefly, in his youth, he had confused this comfort he felt around Edelgard with romantic love. But a brief foray with a stableboy had made it all too clear where his interests lay. Hubert loved Edelgard, he was sure of that. But his love for her was steady and unwavering, born of a true belief in her ideals. It was not couched in romance, that tawdry bother concerned with touch and lust. It was a far nobler thing than that! 

Hubert steered them to walk along a small pond, deftly avoiding an oncoming group of town guards. 

“I will remind our allies of our agreement,” Hubert said. “This was never part of our plan.”

Edelgard nodded. “That’s a good idea. We knew when we joined causes that they have their own motivations, but we agreed that they would not interfere with the monastery. This was to be our realm.”

“I will bring the Death Knight to heel,” Hubert said, menace creeping into his voice. “His little reign of terror here could bring unwanted attention to our own activities.”

“I agree.”

They walked a bit further in silence, each no doubt turning over the possibilities in their minds. Hubert worried, as he was wont to do. He had his doubts about Those Who Slither in the Dark. They were cruel and capricious creatures who refused to look past their own ends. Would Edelgard’s dissent sway them from whatever they wanted with Flayn? But he did not voice these concerns. Managing Those Who Slither was his duty, not Edelgard’s. 

“I want to return to our discussion from the day we brought Petra into our fold,” Edelgard said suddenly, glancing up at Hubert. 

“Our discussion?” Hubert asked. 

“Regarding Byleth.” 

At the name, Hubert felt an uncomfortable prickling along the back of his neck. He had steadfastly avoided this topic for the past several days, since it invariably led to arguments. While Hubert and Edelgard rarely disagreed, their professor remained a sore subject between them. 

“I see,” Hubert began. “What do you wish to discuss?”

“No need to get so tense, Hubert,” Edelgard said. “I merely wish to share some personal news.”

“Personal news involving Byleth?” Hubert asked uneasily. 

Edelgard blushed lightly. “Don’t say it like that! I only mean that Byleth and I have grown closer.”

This did little to assuage Hubert’s discomfort. But he managed a small nod, ignoring his feelings. 

“I told her the truth of the Hresvelg Empire,” Edelgard said. “We spoke at length about my nightmares — she had overheard me not long ago, it couldn’t be avoided — and I got to sharing how I came to have those terrors.”

“What did she say?”

“She wanted to know who to blame. I told her of the prime minister’s plot, how he and his cronies deposed my father and subjected me and my siblings to blood experiments.” 

“Did you…” 

Hubert could not complete the thought. But as usual, Edelgard knew where his mind was. 

“I showed her my Crest of Flames,” she said. “And I told her that I would never allow the kind of sacrifice that this Crest required again. That, as emperor, I would build a better world.”

At that, Hubert stopped in his tracks. His mind flashed through the various catastrophic possibilities that this admission could lead to. No one should have two Crests, let alone the Crest of Flames. How could Edelgard admit to such a thing? And to Byleth, the dog of the Church of Seiros. How did this woman charm so many of Edelgard’s secrets out of her? He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the anger that bubbled up in his chest to dissipate. 

“Lady Edelgard, forgive my candor, but that was incredibly reckless,” he said, fighting to keep frustration out of his voice. 

“You weren’t there,” Edelgard said. “It felt right, to tell her.”

“It felt right?” Hubert repeated. “It felt right to admit that you carry a Crest that has not been seen for a millennium? What if she tells someone?”

“She won’t,” Edelgard said with brazen certainty. “You don’t understand her. She is different from everyone else.”

“How so?” Hubert asked. 

“Until now, no one has been able to surpass me,” Edelgard said. “Much less command me. I have always been the untouchable princess. Even to you, Hubert! No one spoke to me as an equal or met my gaze without flinching. It has been lonely.” 

“I… I am sorry, Lady Edelgard,” Hubert murmured. 

He was unsure what to say. She was right, in a way. He was in every way less than her and content to be so. It was his job to do the lowly things that she should not stoop to do herself, to stain his hands and his heart black so that hers may remain pristine. He could not offer her the companionship of an equal. But this alternative was unbearable. He had no faith in Byleth, this woman that the Church adored. At times, he almost loathed her, the way she commanded both their class and Edelgard’s heart with such ease. But then he would catch sight of Edelgard, the way her face softened around Byleth, the way she seemed at ease around her professor. He did not want to deny Edelgard this joy. But then again, he must, if only because their goals were far loftier than anything Byleth could provide. 

“I cannot approve of this decision,” Hubert said. “It is my duty to guide you on this path you walk and to clear any hindrances on your journey. And Byleth is exactly that, a hindrance.” 

“She is an asset. Or she will be, once I can convince her to join our cause,” Edelgard said. “If she were on our side, we would be unstoppable.”

“We are already unstoppable. The Church cannot do anything to forestall the inevitable,” Hubert replied. 

Edelgard sighed. 

“I’ve noted your protestations, Hubert,” she said. “But I do not intend to heed them.”

It was Hubert’s turn to sigh. “As you wish, Lady Edelgard.” 

He stepped back to bow in acquiescence before gesturing back towards the monastery. As they walked back, the conversation turned to mundanities. Hubert could not dispel with the sense of unease that Byleth’s name had brought up. He doubted that feeling would ever go away. But as long as Edelgard held that woman in such high regard, he would have to suffer this in silence. He would endure far harsher things for his Lady. 

The search for Flayn proceeded throughout the Horsebow Moon. The Archbishop Rhea dedicated most of the Church’s staff to the task. But in the end, it was Byleth who found the first viable lead. Late one Sunday night, she called an emergency meeting of the Black Eagles. 

“My suspicions lie with Jeritza,” she announced without preamble. 

Hubert shifted nervously in his spot. He looked over at Edelgard, who was impassive.  
  
“He goes out every night. He’s been acting strange. He’s gone missing,” Byleth counted off the points on her fingers. “Manuela, who is also missing, was seen carrying his mask.” 

“He is rather suspicious,” Edelgard said. “We should go question him.” 

“Agreed. We already have permission from the Archbishop to move ahead with this lead,” Byleth said. 

And then they were off. It was all Hubert could do to follow his classmates as they raced towards Jeritza’s room. When they arrived, the door was ajar. Hubert shoved his way to the front of the group and looked inside. 

“He’s not here,” he said. He felt relieved. “Hm? On the ground! Professor Manuela!”

The songstress lay in a heap on the floor. Her right hand was splayed out before her. Hubert stooped and pressed two fingers to her neck. 

“Is she…?” Byleth began. 

“She’s unconscious. Someone attacked her,” he said. He looked closely at her body, following the path from her shoulder to her fingertip. “She’s pointing at something. There.”

Edelgard followed his gaze to a small bookshelf at the far end of the room. She traced her hands over the wood, hovering at the seam where the wood met the wall. 

“There’s a secret passageway here. Look!” 

She pulled the bookshelf back, revealing a set of stairs that spiraled down into darkness. Edelgard started down the stairs, but stopped herself. She glanced over her shoulder at Manuela. 

“She needs to be taken to the infirmary,” she said. “I’ll carry her. Professor, I’ll be back shortly.”

Edelgard returned to Manuela, hoisting the woman’s unconscious form into her arms with ease. She marched off towards the infirmary, away from view. Watching her retreating figure, Hubert realized with the start what she intended to do. Despite all his objections to this plan, the Flame Emperor would appear tonight. He sighed internally. No matter his reservations, he would serve his Lady Edelgard. 

“Does this mean Professor Jeritza did it?” Caspar asked. “Could he also have kidnapped Flayn?”

“We should start by investigating this passageway,” Hubert said, getting to his feet. “Do you agree, Professor?”

Byleth tore her gaze away from the direction Edelgard had gone to focus on Hubert. She glanced between him and the passageway before nodding. 

“Let’s investigate.”

She ushered the Black Eagles forward. Hubert spared one backwards glance before following Byleth down to confront the Death Knight. 

They descended for what felt like eternity, silent but for their footsteps. At the bottom of the stairwell lay a maze-like series of hallways, connected by locked gates and glowing teleporters. Every passage crawled with mysterious soldiers, heavily armed and garbed in black leathers.   
Beyond them, Hubert could just make out the Death Knight standing over a prone body — Flayn. The Death Knight beckoned at them, finger crooked, before disappearing with Flayn deeper into the basement.   
  
The Black Eagles navigated their way through the circuitous passageways. The mysterious soldiers fought valiantly, but they were no match for Byleth and the army at her command. They tore through the opposing force with a vengeance, eager to recover their classmate. They came to a halt outside an elegant set of doors of dark burnished wood. Byleth rattled the doorknob to no avail. It was locked. She lowered her shoulder, intent on forcing her way through, but Felix stopped her. He held up a key and jerked his head back towards the scattered bodies behind them. 

“One of the archers had this on him,” he said. 

Without waiting for a reply, he slid the key into the lock and turned. A dull clink echoed through the empty hall. The Black Eagles tensed, each of them readying a weapon or a spell. The door swung open.

In stark contrast with the bare, unvarnished passages they had just traversed, the interior of the room was tastefully decorated. Torches were held aloft by shining brass inset in the walls. The walls themselves were painted and papered with an elegant red decoration. The wooden furnishings had been jammed against the walls, callously pushed aside with no regard for their apparent value. Only a table remained atop a small dais. On it was strewn Flayn’s still body. Her sea-foam curls fanned out around her and her hands were clasped over her breast. At a distance, she looked like a sleeping maiden from a fairy tale. Before her towered the Death Knight. At the sound of the door opening, he turned, his armor creaking and scraping with the effort. He chuckled darkly at the sight of the Black Eagles crowding into the room. 

“Now, you will die together…” he purred. “How joyous…”

A column of violet light flashed at his side, revealing a towering figure clothed in black plate. A fan of red feathers surrounded their head, their face obscured by a mask of swirling red and white. A black cloak whipped around them as if buffeted by a strong wind. The Flame Emperor had arrived.

Hubert evaluated the figure before him. The costume had been picked carefully, proportioned for someone far taller and broader than Edelgard. It was a nightmare to move in, but it served its purpose well. It was a fitting regal disguise for the future Emperor of Adrestia. This ruse had been his idea, a precaution to prevent Edelgard’s involvement in their plot from being known. This way, if anyone learned of their scheme, it would be Hubert and the Flame Emperor who took the blame. Edelgard could claim ignorance and live on. The invention of the Flame Emperor was meant to protect her. Hubert had never imagined the farce being used like this.

“Halt. You’re having a bit too much fun,” the Flame Emperor intoned. 

The Death Knight growled. “You are getting in the way of my game.”

“You’ll have more opportunities to play soon. Your work here is done,” the Flame Emperor replied.

“Understood, I will go.”

The Death Knight teleported away in a flash of light. Hubert expected the Flame Emperor to follow, but instead the figure took a step towards the Black Eagles. Before him, Byleth tightened her grip on her iron sword. 

“We will cross paths again,” the Flame Emperor promised Byleth. “I am the Flame Emperor… It is I who will reforge the world.”

Without letting Byleth respond, the Flame Emperor disappeared. Hubert let out his breath with a hiss. 

“Someone check on Flayn!” Dorothea called out from the back of the group.

Linhardt rushed ahead, uncharacteristically alert at the opportunity to heal someone. He leaned over the table. 

“Flayn’s alive, just unconscious,” he said. “But there’s someone else here. Another student, by the looks of it.”

Ferdinand rushed behind the table. He stooped to lift a slight red-headed girl in an Officers Academy uniform. Caspar followed suit, hoisting Flayn into his arms. The pair beat a hasty path back to the monastery, undoubtedly rushing to deposit the two unconscious girls at the infirmary. Hubert watched them unhappily. That was no student they were carrying away. No, he recognized it to be a form that his insufferable ally, Kronya, often adopted. She had often appeared like this during their rendezvous, insisting on being called Monica. On one occasion, Hubert had questioned her about this. All he had gleaned from that infuriating conversation was that “Monica” used to be a student at the monastery until Those Who Slither in the Dark had kidnapped her. She was never found. Hubert wondered what they had wanted with the real Monica, and what she had to do with Flayn.

Hubert scowled to himself as he followed his remaining classmates back to the monastery. He did not understand the motives of Those Who Slither in the Dark. He was unsure what they stood to gain by placing Kronya at the monastery. Perhaps she was meant to be a spy. But, Hubert reflected, that could be more elegantly achieved by paying off any of the numerous monastery staff. There must be some deeper motivations, ones that he and Edelgard had no clue of. Hubert hated to feel so helpless. He resolved privately to watch Monica closely. He would keep track of where she went and why. He would record who she spoke to and what she told them. And if that abhorrent creature so much as sniffed in Edelgard’s direction, Hubert would not hesitate to eliminate her.

The days after Flayn’s return were marked by celebration. Seteth, giddy with relief at finding his sister unharmed, ordered the dining hall cooks to produce a feast fit for kings. A profusion of delectable seafood dishes were offered for a week, much to Flayn’s delight. Hubert himself did not partake in the festivities. True to his word, he fastidiously followed Monica. But, she did not do anything particularly interesting. She would take her meals alone. She rarely spoke to the other students. She was given a room and, for the most part, kept to that space. On one occasion, Hubert attempted to pick the lock to her door and found himself unable to. Whatever secrets she harbored were ones he could not reach. 

But Hubert could not spend all his time tailing Monica. As the monastery returned to normalcy, so too did Hubert. He resumed his duties both as student and as spymaster. The concerns about Monica were relegated to the back of his mind. Winning over allies for Edelgard’s war was a more pressing matter. And so, soon after the festivities for Flayn’s return ceased, he arranged another meeting between Edelgard and one of their classmates. 

Once again, they met late at night. Hubert arranged three chairs around the professor’s desk in the Black Eagles classroom. As Edelgard took her seat, Hubert posted himself at the classroom’s entrance. Petra was punctual, as always. She nodded to Hubert before settling beside Edelgard. Dorothea arrived, as predicted, fashionably late. She breezed past Hubert and took her seat at the desk with a toss of her hair. She looked at the two women she sat with and smiled expectantly. 

Edelgard cleared her throat, exchanging a cautious glance with Petra. 

“I’ll get right to the point, Dorothea,” Edelgard said. “I intend to uproot the system of Crests and nobility in Fodlan and replace it with a meritocracy.”

“An honorable goal. You know how I feel about nobility,” Dorothea said. “But I don’t see what this has to do with me. Or Petra, for that matter.”

Edelgard took a deep breath. “In a few months time, I will ascend to the throne of Emperor of Adrestia. When I do, I intend to declare war against the Church of Seiros. Petra has agreed to provide support from Brigid during this war. I am asking for your help as well.”

At that, Dorothea’s eyebrows flew up. “That seems…drastic. What does the Church have to do with any of this?”

“The Church is controlled by non-human entities that divvied up Fodlan a millennium ago. They separated the continent into the Empire, the Kingdom, and the Alliance and orchestrated the many conflicts between the three nations. They’ve kept us from uniting, so that they may rule instead. I want to free Fodlan and its people from their clutches and, in doing so, institute a new order. That is my dream.”

Dorothea said nothing during this speech, although the shock was clear on her beautiful features. 

“Non-human entities,” she repeated eventually. “You do realize how ridiculous that sounds?”

“I am aware. But that is the reality of our situation,” Edelgard said. “I want the people of Fodlan to rule themselves. I want their lives to be free of any oppression, whether it be from the Church, the nobility, or Crests. Let everyone rise and fall on their own strengths.”

“Why not just institute your new order within the borders of Adrestia?” Dorothea asked. “If it’s a good idea, the other nations will follow.”

“All of Fodlan are my people, not just Adrestia,” Edelgard said. "These borders are made-up lines drawn in the sand by some higher power. They do not represent any true division in this continent. I cannot leave the peoples of the Kingdom and Alliance behind.”

“But war is drastic. ” Dorothea argued. “Thousands will die to make this dream come true. Can that really be worth it?”

“It is worth our independence!” Edelgard said, her voice rising with urgency. “The Kingdom will never abandon its attachment to Crests willingly. Nor will the Alliance forgo the nobility on its own. It is up to me to right the wrongs that the Church has instilled on this continent. I am the only one in a position to fix this system.”

Dorothea frowned and rounded on Petra.

“And you support this?” she asked. “You want to go to war against the Church?”

Petra nodded. “War is a cruel necessity in the fighting for independence,” she said. “I am knowing this to be true and so I will be helping Fodlan be free.” 

“In exchange for Brigid’s freedom?” Dorothea said. 

“No, Brigid will be independent no matter what Petra chooses,” Edelgard interjected. “When I speak of independence, I mean it. Brigid will not be a vassal to the Empire. I’ve already drawn up the paperwork to make it so.” 

At that, Petra pulled out the treaty from her breast pocket, laying it on the table for Dorothea to read. Dorothea looked at it closely. 

“Huh, so you have,” she breathed. She reached out to touch Petra’s cheek. “I can’t imagine what this means to you.”

“It is being one of my dreams,” Petra agreed, nodding into the touch. “And in return, I am wanting to help Edelgard with her dreams.”

Dorothea dropped her hand and turned to Edelgard. She stared hard at the princess, her gaze icy and unwavering. 

“I am not fond of war, not if it can be avoided,” Dorothea said. 

Edelgard matched her gaze with ease. “It cannot be. The Church has to be stopped and they will not hear reason. You’ve seen how Rhea treats dissenters.”

Dorothea sighed deeply. She was wavering, undoubtedly caught between her own peaceful sensibilities and her hatred of nobility. Hubert watched, wary of the possibility that the songstress rebuffed their offer. But in the end, Petra won Dorothea over. She covered the young woman’s hand with her own and gripped it firmly. 

“I am wishing to have you at my side in this battle,” she said. Her words were quiet, meant only for Dorothea’s ears, although they travelled well beyond that. “I will not… It is not mattering to me what you decide, I will feel the same about you. But that is my wish.”

Dorothea smiled sadly. “As if I could ever refuse you, Princess.” 

She cleared her throat and blinked several times, composing herself. 

“I’ll join you, Edie,” she said at last. “I am hesitant to go to war, but I’ve seen the damage that nobility has done firsthand. I’ll weed out the scourge of nobility in Fodlan. And if it means I can help you, Petra, then all the better.”

Edelgard smiled. “I’m glad to have you on our side, Dorothea.”

Dorothea nodded, but there was a melancholy that hung about her. She nuzzled her face into Petra’s neck and sighed deeply. Watching the two of them, Hubert felt a brief pang of loneliness. He had never been one for physical comfort, but the intimacy they shared seemed to strengthen them both. When Dorothea pulled back from Petra, she seemed more steadfast, sure of herself. 

“Things are going to change a lot, aren’t they?” she murmured. 

Edelgard placed a soothing hand against Dorothea’s arm. “They will, but only for the better.”

Hubert forced back his thoughts to savor this victory instead. They had made an ally, one who would serve as a capable and insightful general in what lay ahead. And that was all that mattered. There was no room for comfort in war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: for the sake of convenience, in this universe Flayn does not join the Black Eagles. 
> 
> Also, I have some slight canon divergence here. In my version of the events, Hubert and Edelgard bring their classmates in on their plans beforehand. I always thought it was strange that they didn't tell any of the Black Eagles, so I wanted to include scenes where they start to convince the rest of the team. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and please leave some feedback!


	9. Wyvern Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a warning: this chapter has two very bad (i.e., abusive) dads and people talking about their relationships with said dads. Proceed with caution. 
> 
> As an aside: Count Varley doesn't have a canonical first name, so I gave him one.
> 
> To my regular readers: my updates are going to be biweekly, starting on the 12th of January. I really didn't want to have to stretch out my updates like this, but work has gotten really busy and it's not feasible for me to write a good chapter in a week. Thank you all for reading.

Soon after Flayn’s safe return to the monastery, the Archbishop Rhea announced that the Battle of Eagle and Lion would be held at the end of the Wyvern Moon. It was part of an intentional push from the monastery’s staff to usher in a return to normalcy. The students followed suit, replacing their gossip about the Death Knight with wagers on which house would triumph in battle. A competitive spirit filled the air, a welcome change from the last month’s sense of dread. Ferdinand challenged a good dozen of his classmates to duels and for once, most of them agreed. Bernadetta had been the most surprising of the lot. Then again, she had gotten quite bold around Ferdinand of late. On one occasion, she had even shared some of her personal writing with Ferdinand. The two had spent the rest of the evening (and most of the next day) hashing out the finer plot details of “The Many Seasons of Lady Augustine’s Love,” much to Bernadetta’s delight. 

On the day of their duel, Bernadetta put up a great fight. There were moments where it wasn’t clear which combatant would emerge victorious. But in the end, it was Ferdinand who triumphed. 

“You’re much better with the lance than I am,” Bernadetta huffed as they left the training grounds. “I would’ve beat you if we were using bows.”

“I would never challenge you to such a competition,” Ferdinand replied. “While I am proficient with a bow, I could not outdo your excellent marksmanship.” 

Bernadetta turned a lovely shade of pink at the compliment. She smiled but did not reply, linking arms with Ferdinand as they marched back to the dormitories. Ferdinand felt a burst of pride towards Bernadetta. She was no longer a meek, frail creature who fainted at the drop of a hat. Under Byleth’s tutelage, and due in no small part to her own efforts, Bernadetta had grown into a self-assured individual and confident soldier. It gave Ferdinand great joy to see her, his very first friend at Garreg Mach, thrive. It did, however, make the news that Ferdinand needed to deliver to her all the more painful. 

“Bernadetta, would you like to take tea in my room?” Ferdinand asked as they reached the threshold of his room. “I am enjoying your company and have some news to share.”

“C-certainly,” she agreed, a telltale stutter sneaking into her voice. “Is it good news or bad?”

“Let us settle down before we delve into details,” Ferdinand said hastily. 

He let them both into his room and cleared a pile of books and half-finished scribblings off of his tea table. Once Bernadetta was seated, he busied himself preparing the tea, opting for a refreshing mint that they both enjoyed. Once he had served them both two steaming cups, he settled across from Bernadetta and smiled genially. It did nothing to soothe Bernadetta’s nerves. From Ferdinand’s first mention of news, she had become antsy. She fidgeted with her hands, tearing bits of scrap paper from the floor into increasingly minuscule pieces. She was not someone who handled suspense well. Ferdinand decided not to delay the inevitable any longer. 

“My news is regarding the Battle of Eagle and Lion,” he said. He pulled a thin envelope bearing the Aegir seal from his breast pocket. “My father sent word that he will be coming to observe. He will be at the monastery for the last few days of this month.”

Bernadetta blanched. “Y- your father? That sounds awful. I’m so sorry, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand nodded grimly. “I cannot say I am looking forward to it. But I am afraid that is not all.”

“There’s more? It gets worse?” Bernadatta’s hands began to shake, but she balled them into fists, reducing the tremors to the smallest shudder. She took several breaths. “Tell me.”

“My father will be accompanied by Count Varley,” Ferdinand said. 

He grimaced. At that news, Bernadetta, who had managed to collect herself somewhat, looked ready to burst into tears. She shrank into herself as her whole person began to tremble. 

“M-my f-father is coming?” she moaned into her hands. “Why? H-he doesn’t even c-care about me? W-why does he have to come?”

Ferdinand sighed and placed a bracing hand on Bernadetta’s shoulder. “Apparently he and my father have something of a wager going on our performances in the battle. They wish to see our outcomes in person.” 

Bernadetta sniffled but did not reply. Ferdinand fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, a silken one decorated with orange blossoms, and handed it over. 

“I fear we may be forced to entertain our fathers during their stay,” Ferdinand continued. “I have considered how we may minimize our contact with them: we can keep them busy the first few days with tours of the monastery and the surrounding town, and meetings with the faculty. But I am afraid we must host them for a meal before the day of the battle.”

It did not appear that Bernadetta took any of that in. She gazed mournfully into the depths of her teacup, as if the wilted leaves at the bottom portended her painful end. 

“Bernadetta, we will manage this,” Ferdinand said. “We can endure a few days of our fathers’ company.”

“I-it’s just t-that… The m-monastery w-was a safe place,” she said. She took a steadying breath. “I didn’t want to come here at first. I was basically kidnapped. But I started to like it here. I like my friends.” She glanced up at Ferdinand, before returning to staring into her teacup. “I like the Professor. And I liked that my past couldn’t follow me here. But now, he’s going to be here. He’ll ruin everything.”

“He will not ruin anything,” Ferdinand promised. “Once the week is over, everything will return to what it was. The monastery will be safe again.”

Bernadetta shook her head. “But I’ll know that he could visit again. He could always come.”

“That was always true, Bernadetta. I am afraid the monastery is very accessible to the nobles who send their children here,” Ferdinand said. “Did you not hear Felix complaining to anyone who would listen about his father visiting?”

“T-that’s true… Felix h-hates the D-duke,” Bernadetta said through a sniffle. 

Sensing an opportunity, Ferdinand pushed ahead. 

“And what of Hubert?” he pointed out. “He cannot stand the Marquis Vestra. He is not nearly as vocal with his complaints, but he glowers terribly every time he receives a letter from his father.”

Bernadetta nodded, recognizing the truth in what Ferdinand had to say. She took a small sip of her tea. Ferdinand was relieved to note that her shaking had abated somewhat. 

“We are all afflicted by the misfortune of difficult relations,” Ferdinand continued. “But we must endure. We cannot allow this visit to undo what we have built at the monastery.” 

“Things will go back to normal afterwards,” Bernadetta muttered to herself. 

“Absolutely!” Ferdinand said. 

“I’m glad.” Bernadetta smiled wanly. She peered at a pile of papers that Ferdinand had swept to the floor in his haste to clear the tea table. “Is that some of your poetry?” 

Ferdinand chuckled. “Why yes, it is some blank verse I was toying with earlier. It has not quite materialized into anything worth reading.”

“Let me have a look,” Bernadetta said, leaning over in her chair to snatch up a few sheets. She righted herself and tapped the pages against the table edge to straighten them. “I bet I could help.”

“You do have a way with words,” Ferdinand admitted, eager to move on from the unpleasant topic of families. “I am still swooning over what Sir Gregory says to Lady Augustine in your latest chapter.”

The two of them spent the rest of the afternoon quibbling over turns of phrase in Ferdinand’s poetry. Thoughts of his father lingered in Ferdinand’s mind, but he tried his best to focus on his writing instead. Not even Ludwig von Aegir could spoil this joy of his.

The day of Duke Aegir’s arrival at the monastery crept up on Ferdinand. He felt unprepared as he stood in the entrance hall with Bernadetta, but there was little left for him to do. He had scoured every surface of his dormitory. He had polished his armor collection until the metal gleamed. He had woken extra early to attend to his own appearance, pressing his uniform free of wrinkles and trimming his eyebrows carefully. Now he could only hope this would free him from his father’s scorn. At the sound of footsteps, Ferdinand exchanged a bracing glance with Bernadetta before straightening up to his full height. 

“Father, Count Varley, I hope your trip was a pleasant one,” he said as Ludwig strode into the hall abreast with Count Edison von Varley. 

Ludwig von Aegir had not changed much in Ferdinand’s time away from home. He was a short, portly man with a protruding gut that strained against the buttons of his waistcoat. His hair — the same shade of orange as Ferdinand’s — had thinned considerably more, revealing his shining scalp. A few desperate strands of hair were strewn across the empty expanse of his head, but did little to distract from his baldness. A thin mustache adorned his top lip, the tips ragged and unwaxed.

Edison von Varley was startlingly his opposite. The man was tall and slender, nearly drowning in the dark cloak he was swathed in. He had a thick crop of violet hair, shorn short against his skull. A heavy beard obscured much of his face, the purple a stark contrast against his pale skin. His eyes, deep-set in their sockets and the same dark purple, were cold and hard. 

The two nobleman did not respond to Ferdinand. They looked about the entrance hall, apparently unimpressed by the finery. After a moment of considering their surroundings, they turned to scrutinize their children. 

“I still think it would have been a good match, Edison,” Ludwig said, leering at Bernadetta. 

Edison rolled his eyes. “If only I had made a better wife out of this one.” 

Beside Ferdinand, Bernadetta stiffened. Ferdinand fixed his father with a scowl, but Ludwig only chortled at the sight. 

“Knock that ugly look off your face, boy,” he said. “You don’t have the strength to back it up.”

He reached out and grabbed a lock of Ferdinand’s hair, tugging at it painfully. Ferdinand did not try to shake off his father’s touch — that would only prolong this interaction. 

“Why is your hair so long?” Ludwig said, giving the lock in his fingers a final yank before letting go. “You look ridiculous, like some kind of fop. Get me some shears so I can set you straight.”

Ferdinand winced, but did not reply. He smoothed his hair back into place, wondering just how empty the threat of the shears was. When he lived in the Aegir dukedom, his father had kept his hair cut short by force. Ferdinand had lost count of the times he had been held down by his father’s men as his hair was shorn down. In his time at the academy, he had let his hair grow longer, a sign of his independence. It had just begun to curl at the nape of his neck, brushing against his shirt collar. But he had suspected it would not last. Ferdinand ran his hand through his hair once more, relishing the feeling between his fingers. He would consider it a success if he could survive this visit with his locks intact. 

Ferdinand was spared the need to respond by the arrival of Seteth. The green-haired man swept into the entrance hall wearing a genial smile. 

“Duke Aegir, Count Varley, we are truly grateful that you could make it to Garreg Mach for the battle,” he said, shaking hands with both men. “If you’ve had the chance to greet your children, why don’t I show you to your accommodations. I hope you will find them to your liking.”

The nobles were ushered away, although not before Ludwig could leer at Bernadetta once more. As they left, Ferdinand let out a huff. 

“I suppose we have survived the first skirmish,” he said. 

Beside him, Bernadetta burst into tears. Ferdinand hurried to procure a handkerchief and offered it to his friend, who accepted it gratefully. 

“You did very well,” Ferdinand said, pulling Bernadetta into a tight embrace. 

For a few minutes, they stood there unbothered. Bernadetta sobbed into his shoulder, her whole frame shaking with effort. Ferdinand felt his own eyes begin to prickle, but he fought back the tears. He would need to endure much more of this, both for Bernadetta’s sake and his own. He could not falter now. 

That evening, Ferdinand joined his father for a meal in his quarters. The guest room that Ludwig occupied was simple, but elegant, clearly meant for hosting important visitors of the Church. As he stepped inside, Ferdinand thought that his father had done very little to earn such a distinction. Yet on the strength of his title, he could easily acquire such lodgings.

“Good evening, Father,” Ferdinand said as he took his seat at the dining table. 

Ludwig, seated across from him, merely grunted. He stared at Ferdinand through beady orange eyes, gaze flitting from feature to feature as if searching for something to criticize. Perhaps finding nothing, Ludwig picked up his utensils and began to carve into the meat pie before him. 

“Are you,” Ludwig said through a piece of pie, “ready for this battle then?”

Ferdinand fought the urge to wrinkle his nose at Ludwig’s manners. He had done it once before and had been rewarded with a stinging smack across the face. He did not care to repeat the experience. He mirrored Ludwig’s actions instead, slicing through the flaky pastry on his plate to reveal glistening meat within.

“I believe so,” he said, keeping his gaze focused on the pie. “I won the lance tournament some time ago.”

Ludwig chuckled. “So you’re the best play-fighting brat among the brats. At your age, I had already been to war.”

There was the father Ferdinand knew, so eager to inflate his own ego with decades-old war stories. He considered pointing out that Ludwig was hardly one for strapping on plate and riding war horses anymore, but decided it would not be worth the ensuing argument. He deftly changed the subject, reporting on his progress in his classes. He then delved into his accomplishments in the latest battle, clearing out bandits in Magdred Way. Ludwig listened to everything his half-interest, his attention primarily on his plate. In this manner, they made their way through the meal, Ferdinand hopping from topic to topic with the occasional grunts of assent from Ludwig. 

They made it through the meal without incident and were well into dessert. Ferdinand tucked into his saghert and cream. In a moment of distraction, he let a small detail from his studies slip: he had enrolled in a course for white magic. 

“Healing?” Ludwig spat. “That’s for girls, Ferdinand. Don’t tell me you’re wasting your time learning to heal.”

Ferdinand felt the heat rising in his cheeks, but he managed to keep his voice steady as he replied. “It is not a waste of time. Healing is a critical skill on the battlefield. And white magic has many uses beside—” 

“I won’t hear any more of this,” Ludwig said. “You need to learn to fight, not heal, if you ever want to be half the soldier I was.”

“I simply do not think that I must choose one of the other,” Ferdinand insisted. “I think I would make a good Holy Knight, and I would only need a bit—”

“Enough!” Ludwig snapped. He put his utensils down with a clatter. “I’m not paying for you to prance around playing nurse behind the front lines. I thought the Officers Academy would make you into a real man, but you’re still the same insufferable dandy you were when I last saw you.”

On any other day, Ferdinand would back down. Arguing with his father was not a productive endeavor in any respect. But the months spent at Garreg Mach had made him bolder. 

“Your language reflects on your manhood more than my own,” Ferdinand said, glowering at his father.

“My manhood?” Ludwig repeated. He scoffed. “You don’t need to worry about that. I’m not the one who locked themselves in a room sobbing after their first kill.”

That gave Ferdinand pause. He had not told his father about the mission in Zanado, or how it had affected him. Unable to retort, Ferdinand blushed and averted his eyes. Ludwig laughed cruelly. 

“Didn’t think I knew about that, huh?” he said, sneering. “I heard it today from that Seteth. Even your professors know what a weakling you are.”

“It… I didn’t… It was a one-time thing,” Ferdinand stammered, hating how feeble the excuse sounded. 

“It should have never happened!” Ludwig said, his voice rising. “You’re a weakling! An embarrassment to the Aegir name!”

Ferdinand shrank into his seat, regretting having said anything. This is what he had wanted to avoid. But he had willfully incited his father’s rage. He ducked his head and stared down at his plate. He wondered just how much of Ludwig’s yelling he would have to endure. But to his surprise, Ludwig shook his head and chuckled. 

“It’s just as well. At least I’ll win the bet I have going with Varley,” he muttered to himself. 

Ferdinand could not help but question that. “What did you bet?”

“We’ve got 100 pieces of gold on whoever’s kid eats it first.” Ludwig smirked as he mimed a knife being drawn across his throat. “I wasn’t sure when I saw his pathetic girl, but you’ve made me feel much better about my chances.”

For what felt like the thousandth time that evening, Ferdinand found himself fighting back tears. It wasn’t that he was surprised. No, he had no expectation that his father would find him capable. But the confirmation that Ludwig voiced his many criticisms of Ferdinand to others stung. Ludwig was not content with browbeating Ferdinand alone. He had to announce his son’s inadequacies to the world as well. Ferdinand took a deep breath and rose from the table. He did not meet his father’s eyes. 

“I think I will take my leave, Father,” he said. “I have an early rise for the battle tomorrow.”

“Yeah, get out of my sight,” Ludwig said. 

He resumed eating. Ferdinand turned on his heel and marched out of the room. The sound of his father’s chewing dulled to nothing as he walked out of the guest quarters and into the hallways of the monastery. 

At the late hour, the space was deserted. Ferdinand’s footsteps echoed as he made his way through. He hardly knew where he was going, his mind occupied by his father and his words. His feet carried him past the dormitories, past the classrooms, and down the dock. Ferdinand stopped at the dock’s edge, toeing the space where wood ended and empty air began. 

The pond rippled lightly. Moonlight lanced across the troubled waters, splashing white light in every direction. Ferdinand knelt down, rough wood biting through his uniform trousers. He shivered slightly in the cold. But he did not mind it. The sight was beautiful, ethereal. It was a welcome distraction from the disastrous evening. 

Ferdinand settled more comfortably onto the dock. He breathed in the crisp evening air, reveling in the floral scents that wafted from the nearby greenhouse. He let his head tip back and closed his eyes. He was just beginning to relax when the wood beneath him creaked. Ferdinand tensed as footsteps closed in behind him.

“It’s rather late.”

The words, low and silken, hung in the night air. Ferdinand recognized Hubert’s voice at once, even though it did not carry its typical menace. He was unsure how to respond. So he kept his eyes fixed on the pond and said nothing, turning over Hubert’s words in his mind. The wood creaked again. The footsteps began to recede. Ferdinand opened his mouth. 

“I am returning from a dinner with my father. He is visiting for the Battle of Eagle and Lion.”

The footsteps stopped. 

“Duke Aegir came to see the battle,” Hubert murmured. His voice was hardly above a whisper, but it rang clear in the empty night. “You must be honored.”

Ferdinand could hear the sharp edge of sarcasm in Hubert’s words. It made his hackles rise. But it was not Hubert who drew his ire. It was Ludwig von Aegir. 

“As if there were anything honorable about my father,” Ferdinand said bitterly. 

Hubert exhaled sharply through his nose. The dock groaned as he stepped closer to Ferdinand. 

“You are not fond of him,” Hubert said. 

The hair on the back of Ferdinand’s neck stood on end. He imagined he could feel Hubert’s breath against his skin, cold air curdling it to gooseflesh. He stared into the center of the pond as if he could see into its depths. 

“He is a contemptible man,” Ferdinand said. “Greedy, proud, indolent. He is as lacking in character as he is in compassion.” 

There was a pause: a moment, then another, then another. Ferdinand held his breath as the silence stretched on. He had said too much. He cringed in anticipation of a biting remark, or footsteps receding. He was not sure which would be worse. 

“I am inclined to agree,” Hubert said finally. “He has made many inexcusable choices in the name of Imperial rule.”

Ferdinand winced. Hubert could be referring to any number of the actions Ludwig had taken in his tenure as Duke, from the willful neglect of Hrym to the Insurrection of the Seven. There was no shortage of the blood that stained Ludwig’s hands. Mercifully, Hubert did not elaborate any further.

“When I graduate,” Ferdinand said slowly, feeling compelled to reveal some small part of himself, “I intend to pass judgment upon my father. When I succeed him as Prime Minister, I will hold him accountable for his crimes.”

“Crimes like his hold serious punishment,” Hubert said. “Are you prepared to see this goal through?”

Ferdinand straightened up, raising his chin at the moon in defiance. He clenched his hands into fists. 

“I will see that justice is done,” he promised, “whatever it takes.”

“Then you’ll be a better leader than your father,” Hubert said. 

He said it with the same matter-of-factness with which he might remark on the weather. Ferdinand was momentarily taken aback. This was not exactly a compliment, but it was quite possibly the least unkind thing Hubert had said to him. His stomach flipped. Ferdinand wondered if he should turn around, look Hubert in the eyes. But the thought of his icy green gaze stopped him. He could not bear their caustic scrutiny tonight. He trained his eyes on a leaf that floated serenely on the surface of the pond. 

“I hope so,” he said.

Suddenly, he heard Hubert take a step closer, then another. 

“I wish for a world where men like your father could not rise to power,” Hubert said.

He said it so plainly, as if it were a perfectly realistic request, as if it were in Ferdinand’s power to grant him such a thing. Ferdinand shifted uncomfortably against the pier. He felt nervous to respond in kind. This kind of plain unvarnished truth was not something he could easily share with Hubert, of all people. But as the two waited in silence, Ferdinand realized he did not want the conversation to end. He cleared his throat, willing himself the courage to speak. 

“I too wish for such a world,” he admitted. “But I do not think it to be possible.”

“Not here, not as things stand,” Hubert said quickly. “But it could happen, in a world where people were judged by their actions alone, not their blood.”

Ferdinand thought of Sylvain, hunched over his brother’s broken body. Perhaps Miklan would be a good brother in such a world. Perhaps Miklan would be alive. He thought of Lord Lonato, leading foolhardy commoners into war for his personal agenda. Maybe there was a universe in which that could have been prevented. He stared down at his own hands, imagining the Crest of Cichol that lay beneath the freckled skin. Where would he end up in a world like that?

“Maybe,” Ferdinand said. “But the point is moot. That is not what my world is like.”

“If it could be, would you do what was necessary to bring it into existence?” Hubert asked.

Ferdinand blinked. He was not sure what they were discussing anymore; the words danced between the hypothetical and reality too quickly for him to follow. Just what was Hubert getting at? But at the same time, he could hear the hint of a dare in Hubert’s voice. It sparked a sudden sense of indignation deep in his breast. Ferdinand drew himself up to full height.

“If it were within my power, then I would… Whatever it takes,” he said.

“Hmph. Noted.”

Ferdinand wondered if he was imagining the tinge of approval in Hubert’s voice. He turned his head slightly, trying to catch the sight of Hubert from the corner of his eye. 

“Hubert, I… It is getting rather late. I am going to turn in.”

There was silence. After a few moments, Ferdinand got to his feet and turned around. The dock was deserted, just as when he arrived. Ferdinand returned to his dormitory and quickly fell into a deep and fitful sleep. 

The next day, the Black Eagles set out for Gronder Field. It was a week’s travel, and the grueling task of lugging weapons and armor was as much a part of the event as the battle itself. They took a winding path out of the mountains and into the rolling hills of Varley territory. After that came the endless wheat fields of Bergliez County. Eventually, those too gave way to the empty expanse of Gronder Field. The land, once an ancient battlefield, now served as a pasture for the Bergliez cattle. But the animals had been cleared for the occasion and the sprawling grasslands lay fallow. 

The morning of the battle, a thin mist hung over the land. Ferdinand shifted anxiously from one foot to the other, staring out at the two armies before him. To the right were the Blue Lions. Ashe towered over Gronder Field from a strategic perch, arrow nocked and ready to fly loose. Across a small bridge to the left lay the Golden Deer. If Ferdinand tilted his head at just the right angle, he could catch light glinting off of a pair of glasses in the distance. From above came the sound of horns: the Garreg Mach standard. Craning his neck, Ferdinand could see Archbishop Rhea on high, green waves of her hair floating on the breeze. Beside her was Seteh, his mouth set in a typical unyielding frown. 

The Black Eagles parted. Edelgard marched through their ranks and emerged at their helm, twirling in axe in her right hand.

“Our victory must be absolute,” she said, “no matter what it may take.”

Byleth followed in her footsteps, expression unreadable and one hand on the hilt of her sword. She turned to look as a clear high trumpet note echoed across Gronder Field. 

“Forward, now!” Edelgard cried. 

In a smooth gesture, she set loose the Black Eagles. Footsteps and hooves thundered. Ferdinand found himself buffeted forward by the sheer mass of bodies around him. He pulled on his steed’s reins and pushed northwest, leading himself and his battalion across a small bridge. Hubert and his sorcerers followed close behind. 

An arrow whistled past Ferdinand’s ear, narrowly missing him. He pulled up short. It was Ignatz, sniping at him from the undergrowth. Another arrow shot out, this one glancing off of his breastplate. There, in the bushes! Ferdinand charged forward with his lance outstretched before him. A flash of movement caught his eye and he veered left. Plunging down with all his strength, he knocked the bow out of Ignatz’s hands and sent the diminutive man flying back.

“I yield! I yield!” Ignatz shrieked before Ferdinand could strike again. 

Ferdinand nodded briskly before charging further north. He encountered a few Alliance soldiers, who were easily dispatched by Tempest Lance and a blast of Miasma from Hubert. Then came Lorenz. Ferdinand recognized him from the red rose on his lapel, eye-catching even at twenty paces. They exchanged a solemn greeting, each nodding wordlessly to the other. Then, Ferdinand lowered his head and his lance and galloped at full-tilt. With a yell he thrust his lance. There was an almighty jerk as his horse collided with another. He fought to remain upright. For a moment, he was slipping, pitching sideways into the dirt. But then he grabbed tight onto the reins and leaned hard onto his heels and steadied. He pushed onward, barely registering that Lorenz lay in the dirt behind him.

As he rode, he caught sight of Caspar clambering over the wooden stronghold at the center of the field. The slight blue-haired boy caught Ashe with a swift uppercut to the jaw, knocking the archer from his perch. With that, the rest of the Black Eagles stormed the stronghold, clamoring over the structure with practiced ease. In the distance, Bernadetta caught Ingrid’s pegasus in the wing with an arrow. The steed and its rider plummeted in the ground in the burst of feathers. They were winning. The realization sent a spurt of adrenaline through Ferdinand’s body. His heart caught in his throat. He leaned forward in his seat, egging his horse on with a dig of his heels. 

Ahead of him, Claude stood stock-still on a raised platform. It was a healing stronghold, one of the many stone daises imbued with white magic that studded the landscape. Claude caught sight of Ferdinand and raised two fingers in greeting. Then he nocked and loosed an arrow. Ferdinand jerked on the reins hard and his steed leapt out of its path. He plowed forward, eyes fixed on dancing green eyes. His vision narrowed to hone in on the rangy archer. Ferdinand twisted his arm back, grasped a short spear, and chucked it with a grunt. The weapon leapt from his hand and struck Claude squarely in the chest. He stumbled back, one step, then two. Digging in his heels, Ferdinand closed the distance between then and pressed the dulled tip of a training lance to his opponent’s throat. 

“Stand down, Claude,” Ferdinand commanded. 

The patter of footsteps announced Hubert’s arrival to the clearing. He was breathing hard, the toll of his magic clear in the pallor of his features. At the sight of Claude, prostrate but smirking beneath Ferdinand, he twitched his fingers and conjured forth twin orbs of Miasma. He said nothing, but raised in hands, fingers curling in Claude’s direction. Claude vacillated between Ferdinand and Hubert, green eyes flickering beneath heavy lids, before throwing his hands above his head. 

“I surrender, boys,” he said. “My teammates will have to take it from here.”

Hubert smirked and jerked his head eastward. “There isn’t much left of your team. Or the Blue Lions, for that matter.”

Ferdinand followed the jut of Hubert’s jaw toward to eastern end of the battlefield. In the distance, he could just make out Edelgard’s fluttering red cape encroaching on the far-off Kingdom stronghold. A wiry healer sent blasts of Nosferatu flying in every direction, desperate to ward off the Black Eagle onslaught. But it did little to deter Edelgard. She twirled out of reach of the spell, before darting in and rapping her wooden blade across Mercedes’ hands. The healer cried out and fell back. As she hit the ground, a horn bellowed across Gronder Field. 

“That is the end of this year’s Battle of the Eagle and Lion!” Seteth’s voice boomed, magically amplified to echo across the wide expanse. “And the winners are the Black Eagles!”

Ferdinand watched as Edelgard thrust her axe above her head triumphantly. He mirrored her with his lance and grinned fiercely. Victory was his!

The aftermath of the battle was a whirlwind. Caspar ran up to him and clapped him heartily on the back. Behind him, Linhardt traced a sigil in the air. Ferdinand felt the warmth of Physic rushing his system, lifting the deep ache from his shoulders. Members of the other houses came forth to shake hands. Ignatz offered a compliment on Ferdinand’s speed, while Lorenz groused about scuffing his armor. Then came the visiting nobles, a coterie of tight-laced older men and women who murmured politely about the Black Eagles’ performance. Among them was Ludwig von Aegir, who clapped Ferdinand on the shoulder and squeezed tight enough to make him wince. 

“Keep in mind what I told you, son,” Ludwig said warningly. “I’ll be seeing you soon enough.”

He shook Ferdinand by the shoulder once sharply before taking his leave. He and Count Varley swept off of Gronder Field, their contingents moving south and west towards their respective estates. Ferdinand hardly had time to register the relief of seeing his father leave before he was swept into the celebratory festivities. 

Rather than eating a meal in the dining hall as usual, the Professor had sent for food to be delivered from Bergliez county. The Black Eagles spread blankets onto the battle-torn fields and ate on top of them, camaraderie and cheer making up for the lack of tables and fine cutlery. They scattered across the field, each taking some food in hand before settling into a comfortable spot to eat and relax. Ferdinand found himself sitting legs akimbo beside Bernadetta. He munched happily on a flaky pastry he had snagged from a nearby basket, relishing the soft mix of meat and potato that lay within. Between bites, he glanced over at Bernadetta, who was wrapping gauze around a shallow cut in her leg. 

“Linhardt could take care of that for you,” Ferdinand said. 

Bernadetta’s fingers did not still as she deftly tied the gauze tight against her leg. 

“I don’t want to bug him with this,” she said. “He seems busy.”

She nodded towards a soft swell of grass, where the mage was fast asleep. Beside him, Caspar looked on adoringly while sharpening his axe. It was an idyllic scene, the snoozing sage and his overeager guard. Ferdinand felt something soft stir in his heart watching them, but he tore his gaze away. 

“Let me, then,” Ferdinand offered, wiping his hands clean. “I brought a tome with me, just in case.”

Bernadetta assented, lifting her bare calf to rest in Ferdinand’s lap. Ferdinand fished his white magic tome out of his pack before flipping to the page decorated with the sigil for healing. He placed his left hand over the gauze while his right traced the sigil. Golden light glowed beneath Ferdinand’s palm. He felt a rush of warmth run down his arm and tingle at his fingertips, before sinking into the skin beneath his hand. 

“All done,” he said, snapping the book shut. 

Without responding, Bernadetta yanked off the bandage, revealing clear pale skin beneath. She grinned at Ferdinand.

“You’ve gotten really good at that,” she said, tracing the skin cautiously with her fingers, as if she were unsure of what she might find. “There isn’t even a scar.”

“Do you have any more injuries? I can take care of minor things like that.” Ferdinand gave Bernadetta a quick once over, finding nothing of concern. 

Bernadetta shook her head. “Once Caspar took the stronghold, I just stayed up there. I was too scared to get closer.”

“You’re an archer,” Ferdinand said. “It makes sense that you would attack from a distance.”

“I did do that!” Bernadetta said, bobbing her head in agreement. She counted off names on her fingers. “I hit Ingrid, Leonie, and even Lysithea!” She stilled, her gray eyes wide with sudden realization. “Oh, do you think they’ll be mad at me? I hope they don’t hate me!”

Ferdinand laughed and clapped a hand reassuringly against Bernadetta’s back. 

“I doubt they will. All three of them are good sportsmen who will respect you for putting up a fair fight.”

The reasoning seemed to assure Bernadetta, who relaxed underneath his touch. The two sat in companionable silence for some time, watching their teammates gallivant across the field. Ferdinand caught sight of Petra and Dorothea curled up in the shade of a tree. They were fixated on each other, the public setting doing nothing to dim the open affection with which they gazed at one another. Dorothea cupped Petra’s cheek in her hand and Petra brought her own hand up to press against Dorothea’s, her eyes never wavering from that of her lover’s. Ferdinand felt the sharp ache of longing, watching the two of them. It was an enviable thing, to be so frankly adored by another person. He wondered if he might ever inspire such an emotion in another. 

His mind wandered to Sylvain. The lanky redhead was regaling Felix with some undoubtedly salacious story, gesturing broadly to emphasize his points. Felix did not seem amused. His arms were crossed and his scowl was visible even at the distance. Ferdinand consider briefly feeling jealous. It had been jarring, how quickly Sylvain had moved on to profess his love to some girl, and then another, and then, eventually, to Felix. But the genuine pleasure in Sylvain’s expression was easy to see, and Ferdinand could not bear any ill-will to his friend. He watched fondly as Sylvain burst into laughter while Felix flushed red and punched his companion in the arm. 

Bernadetta was following Ferdinand’s line of sight. She quirked an eyebrow at Ferdinand. 

“What did your father have to say about Sylvain?” she asked.

“He did not — and will never — know about Sylvain,” Ferdinand replied quickly. “I cannot imagine the fallout that would result from such a revelation.” 

“Because he’s from the Kingdom or because he’s a boy?” Bernadetta asked. 

“Both, though mostly the latter,” Ferdinand admitted. “I know frowning upon that sort of thing has fallen out of fashion in Fodlan, but my father clings to the old ways. He would prefer that I found a nice woman to marry.”

“M-my father is the same. He wants me to get married o-once I graduate,” Bernadetta said, voice quavering at the mention of Count Varley.

“What do you want?” Ferdinand said. 

Bernadetta blushed. She anxiously uprooted grass, fingers scrabbling in the dirt to squeeze around a single blade and pull. Ferdinand waited. 

“I don’t want to marry anyone,” Bernadetta said eventually. She yanked a long piece of grass free from the dirt and tied it into a bow. “I want to live alone and work on my writing. Maybe get a cat to keep me company.”

“Oh, no interest in finding a lover to share your life with?” Ferdinand pressed, bumping his shoulder into Bernadetta’s. 

“Not really,” Bernadetta said. “I enjoy my own company and I love my friends. That’s plenty for me.”

“I think that’s lovely. You must be very self-possessed to have such aspirations,” Ferdinand pronounced. He paused, his expression darkening. “If only Count Varley understood that… At least they are gone. We have survived our fathers’ visit.”

Bernadetta, who had smiled widely at the compliment, nodded grimly. “We did. The monastery is safe again.” 

“That it is,” Ferdinand agreed. He cleared his throat. “Let us speak of lighter things, since we are no longer burdened by our fathers’ presence. Perhaps I could read you some of the verse I have been working on.”

They whiled away at the day with poetry. Ferdinand insisted on standing up and reciting his work at full volume, all the while hoping to catch the attention of his other classmates. None seemed interested, but Bernadetta wholly enjoyed the performance, humming and snapping along to particularly pleasant turns of phrase. Afternoon slipped into evening. The sun began to dip below the horizon, throwing dazzling copper light across Gronder Field. 

As if on cue, the roars of wild wyverns began to fill the air. From the east, glowing orange in the dying light of day, came a flock of wyverns. They soared on outstretched wings, dipping and spinning and gamboling, dark flurries of movement against the bronze sky. Every so often, one wyvern would open its maw to howl. The low keening wail was soon picked up by its flockmates. Before long, all the wyverns were howling in chorus, the rumble of their voices carrying far across the empty fields. As they disappeared towards the north, another flock emerged, howling and yipping and capering across the sky.

Ferdinand tipped his head back in delight. He tracked the progress of a particularly runty wyvern as it flapped ungainly against the wind. Its leathery wings trembled from the effort. Ferdinand felt a rush of gratitude towards Byleth. It had been her idea for the Black Eagles to linger at Gronder so late, until the wyverns took flight. This time of year was special. Typically, wyverns travelled silently in the dead of night, their progress untraceable in the dark. But at this time of year, they flew earlier and often as part of a migratory pattern. They would soar across the sky at dusk, announcing their presence with unearthly roars. It was a beautiful sight, and one Ferdinand was grateful to share with his classmates. 

The Black Eagles were still scattered about Gronder Field. Most leaned back to watch the progress of the wyverns. They clustered in small groups, huddling against the chill of early evening. But a lone figure caught Ferdinand’s eye. Hubert stood apart from the rest. He hunched into the depths of his cloak, arms shoved deep into his pockets. His dark hair obscured his face completely. Recalling their last conversation, Ferdinand felt compelled to approach him. He padded slowly up to Hubert, stepping loudly to announce his presence. He stood astride Hubert, chest out and arms folded behind his back. He stared resolutely up at the darkening sky.

“I thought,” Ferdinand began, eyes fixed on a star flickering into view, “that I would inform you that my father has left.”

Hubert straightened at the sound of Ferdinand’s voice. He rose to full height, stretching well past the crown of Ferdinand’s head. He tilted his chin. One lime green eye peered out from a lank curtain, a spotlight in the night, before glancing sharply away. 

“So Duke Aegir is back where he belongs,” Hubert muttered to the air.

“We are mercifully free of his presence,” Ferdinand agreed. 

He immediately regretted the comment. It was just the sort of vacuous chatter that Hubert detested. Any moment now, the man would rear back, lip curling, to deliver some sort of viscous verbal lashing. Ferdinand tensed in anticipation. But the silence stretched on and the anticipated moment never arrived. They stood in quiet companionship with only the sound of breathing occupying the space between them. 

Unsure what else to do, Ferdinand stole a glance to his right, sizing up the man beside him. At full height, Hubert stood nearly a head taller than him. His face was all acute angles and long lines: the precise point of his chin, the sharp plane of his cheekbones. In the dying light of the dusk, deep shadows blossomed across his features. Ferdinand could not make out the cut of his mouth, nor the shade of his eyes. Realizing he was staring, he pulled his gaze away. 

The same urge that drove Ferdinand to approach Hubert struck again. This time, it seized in his throat, forcing him to speak. He frowned as his mouth, unbidden, gave form to his thoughts. 

“I wanted to thank you. For the other night,” he heard himself say. 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” came the reply. 

Ferdinand did not know what he had expected, nor what he wished to achieve. This sort of taciturn response was the best one could hope for from Hubert, of all people. He bristled. 

“In that case, forget it.”

He turned on his heel, about to stalk off, when a small cough caught his attention. He stopped, though he glowered into the distance. He made a big show of folding his arms over his chest. 

“What?” he snapped. 

“You did not need to thank me.” 

Hubert spoke in a soft and even tone, like one might to a spooked animal. Ferdinand scowled as he made the association in his mind. He was not some skittish mare in need of calming. Nor did this interaction warrant such tenuous stakes. He tossed his head, flicking his bangs up and away from his brow. 

“Nonsense. I will never stray from what is right and proper,” Ferdinand said. “You spoke quite helpfully with me in a difficult moment, though you may not have known it.”

“Difficult, because of your father,” Hubert said. 

“Indeed,” Ferdinand said. 

There was another pause. This time, Ferdinand kept his eyes on the sky. He searched idly until he caught sight of the runt again, still struggling some distance behind its flock. He watched as it flapped ineffectively against the winds. Its leathery lips were pulled back into a snarl. Even from the ground below, Ferdinand could make out the hint of yellowed fangs. He followed the wyvern’s unsteady progress across the sky. 

“My own father is among those Imperial nobles who are morally rotten,” Hubert announced. 

Ferdinand jumped at the sudden rasp of his voice, like steel raked across silk. His breath caught in his throat. He found himself leaning slightly towards Hubert, straining to catch every tiny hitch of air as he spoke. He turned his head a few degrees and glanced up through his lashes at Hubert. The man was glaring out at the horizon, upper lip stiff and chin jutted. The tiniest crack appeared in Hubert’s mask: a minute twitch of his brow giving away some deeper inquietude. But in an instant, the crack sealed and the mask was back in place, giving away nothing. 

Ferdinand wavered between apologizing and walking away. He shifted his weight ever so slightly to the balls of his feet. The muscles in his calves tensed. But before he could march off, the thin crack of Hubert’s mask widened. 

“It is…unfortunate,” Hubert continued, the slightest tremble in his lower lip, “but the rot must be excised.”

Ferdinand let out a slow breath, chest heaving with unknown exertion. 

“You will do what is necessary for your station, I assume,” he said, proceeding as though he were feeling his way though a darkened room. “Despite your relation.”

“Of course,” Hubert said. “Without hesitation. It is a sacrifice I am happy to make.”

“Do you feel badly about it? Even if you know it must be done?” 

Ferdinand shut his eyes as he asked. He squeezed every muscle in his face, tensing and honing in on the feeling on pressure behind his forehead. His shoulders raised instinctively to ward off a blow that did not come. 

“Of course,” Hubert whispered. His voice could just have easily been the rustling of fabric in the breeze. “I feel it even though I know with certainty that it is what I must do.”

“I feel it too. Or rather, I know I will feel it, when the time comes,” Ferdinand said. “I loathe my father, but I feel a stab of shame even in my pettiest rebellions against him.”

“But not shame enough to stop rebelling,” Hubert said, though his voice carried the undercurrent of questioning.

“Never. I suppose the shame is our burden to bear,” Ferdinand said. He sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair. Opening his eyes, he stole a final glance at Hubert. “I thank you… For commiserating,” he clarified. 

Hubert hummed in assent, saying nothing more. Above them, the sky deepened to an inky blue. One by one, the stars appeared, mapping out constellations for those who knew to look. The moon swam into view, throwing white light in every direction. Hubert and Ferdinand stood side by side and cast distorted shadows across the length of Gronder Field.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Duke Aegir and Count Varley are gone and everyone is very relieved. Thank you for tuning in for another week of Ferdinand and Hubert clumsily sharing their feelings and figuring out adulthood. Up next is Remire Village! 
> 
> As you may have noticed, my Bernadetta lies somewhere on the gray/ace spectrum. I really see her as someone who is perfectly happy without romantic attachments. She loves herself and her own company, and that's all she really wants! Hopefully y'all don't mind this headcanon of mine too much. It won't end up being a big part of the story in any way, but I wanted it in there if only to highlight how close Ferdinand and Bernadetta have become. I think they'd be good friends! 
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading! Please leave any feedback or thoughts or criticisms. I love to hear from you all.


	10. Red Wolf Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uhhhhh, here's 11k words about Remire Village. I had a lot to say about this particular mission! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> As a warning, there are graphic depictions of violence in this chapter. Proceed carefully.

“Something is wrong in Remire.”

Hubert muttered the words aloud as he deciphered the coded message he had been passed earlier that day. He repeated it again, turning the phrase over in his mind. He was familiar with Remire. He had investigated the village more closely after Byleth showed up; both she and Jeralt possessed close ties to the settlement. But nothing remarkable came up. It was just another village of the many that lined the border of the Arundel territory. Hubert could not imagine anything of interest happening all the way out there. Besides, the message offered no further information. There was little Hubert could do with the cryptic note. He sent a coded response and waited. Days passed, during which he sent another message, then another. But no reply ever came. His contact had gone dark. 

This disquieted Hubert, but there was little he could do to rectify it. Following Flayn’s disappearance, his own comings and goings at Garreg Mach were more closely monitored. He could explain away a journey to Enbarr on Edelgard’s behalf, but not a personal trip out to Remire Village. He decided to file away this piece of information, trouble brewing in Remire, and bide his time. 

But it did not take long for Remire to come up again. The next day, when Hubert found himself passing by the infirmary he heard the name once more. 

“What do you think of the disease in Remire?” Shamir asked, her voice carrying well past the infirmary doors. 

At the mention, Hubert stopped short. He held his breath in anticipation and leaned as close to the doorway as he dared. He had made a habit of eavesdropping on the Knights of Seiros. They were all rather boisterous. They spoke openly, never noticing the fly on the wall that was Hubert. Shamir was a bit of an exception. The Knight was not particularly devoted, unlike her partner Catherine. Nor was she particularly loud. She crept through the corridors of the monastery like a panther stalking its prey, listening more than speaking. But now, for once, she spoke in clipped tones that were clear even from the hallway. 

“The chances of that being an infectious disease are extremely slim,” came Manuela’s reply. 

“Why’s that?” Shamir sounded detached, even bored. 

“The symptoms are too varied,” Manuel said. “Restless movements, fits of violence, becoming bedridden or even impossible to wake… There’s no disease I know of that can do that. No, it’s either some mixture of poisons or magic.”

“I’ve seen some destructive poisons in my time. But…magic can do all that?” Shamir asked. 

“It wouldn’t be your everyday magic. Nothing like this is taught or practiced by regular folk,” Manuela said. “It’s dark magic.”

That was all Hubert needed to hear to put it all together. Dark magic could only be the work of Those Who Slither in the Dark. And lucky for Hubert, one of those unsavory characters had recently made Garreg Mach monastery their home. 

When Hubert found her, Monica was at the training grounds practicing with a sword. Hubert lingered in the shadows of the doorway to watch her train. She moved gracefully through a few longsword guard positions, pausing at each to make small corrections in her form. As she arrived at the final form — the pommel beside her right hip with both hands on hilt — Hubert made his presence known with a cough. He stepped forward into the light. 

“Out of practice?” he said. “Your form is off.”

Monica startled when Hubert first spoke, though he knew it was for show. Just another affectation she had adopted for the character. She relaxed her posture, letting the tip of her sword rest on the ground. She flicked a few red strands of hair out of her face and glared. 

“As though you’d know,” she said. “The only time you pick up a weapon is to hand it to Edel.”

“You hold your back foot slightly inward. It’s not turned out enough,” Hubert said. He folded his hands behind him as he approached Monica. “A beginner’s mistake.”

Monica stepped closer to Hubert. She lifted the sword to bring its tip to the base of his neck. She traced the length of her blade at a leisurely pace with her eyes before finally settling her gaze onto Hubert’s face. 

“Why don’t we have a spar then?” Monica’s mouth curled into a wicked smile. “Grab that sword and we’ll find out who the beginner is.”

“No need for dramatics, Monica,” Hubert said, firmly directing the sword away from his throat. “I merely offer advice. Besides, I’ve come for a conversation, not a spar.”

Monica looked displeased, but relented. She withdrew the sword and threw it aside. 

“Always such a bore, Hubert,” she said. 

She raised her eyes, wide and deceptively innocent, to meet Hubert’s. 

“What did you want to talk about?” she asked. 

The training grounds were mercifully empty. Hubert kept one eye on the door — firmly shut and too thick for any words to carry outside — but dropped his student facade. He stepped closer to Monica, using his height to loom over her slight figure. 

“What are you up to in Remire?” Hubert said. 

“Remire? Never heard of it,” Monica replied sweetly. 

Hubert let out a breath through his nose. His patience always wore thin around this woman…this creature that he was forced to endure. He took a beat to regain control of his annoyance before he spoke. 

“There is news of dark magic in Remire. It’s infecting the villagers and making them belligerent. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that you and your friends are involved.”

“That’s lucky for you, isn’t it?” Monica said, her voice still light and playful enough that the jibe could be a joke between friends. 

“Don’t play coy. What are you up to in Remire?” Hubert hissed through gritted teeth. 

Monica stretched her mouth into a smile, but it was too toothy, too menacing to look convincing.

“I’m not up to anything, Hubert,” she drawled. “I’m just a student trying to finish my year at Garreg Mach. I don’t know anything about Remire.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe you at all. If you will not tell me easily…”

Hubert matched Monica’s expression, though it was more a baring of teeth than a smile. He brought his right hand forward to palm Monica’s cheek. Through his glove, he could feel how unnaturally clammy her skin was. Monica did not recoil from his touch, allowing him to drag his hand from face to jaw to throat, to curl his fingers around her neck. He pressed against where her jugular should be and found no pulse. Human blood did not run through this beast’s veins. 

Hubert considered, briefly, what it would be like to break her neck. If she were a human it would take such a measured amount of effort. One hard wring and he would be free of this burden. Slay the wolf who had so easily slipped into the flock. His fingers twitched against her skin. Monica did not pull away, though she seemed to sense where Hubert’s thoughts lay. 

“Don't get any ideas. You don’t want to start a fight you can’t finish,” Monica said. 

She wrapped her fingers — too pale, too spindly, too elongated — around his wrist. Her nails dug into the soft skin against the inside of his arm. Hubert did not wince as they broke the surface, a sharp stinging pain erupting underneath her grasp. He felt his blood, warm and wet, begin to run within his sleeve. But he did not withdraw. Hubert flexed the fingers of his left hand, still behind his back. A flicker of Miasma sparked to life in his palm. 

“I meant what I said before. I am not here to fight. Just tell me what I wish to know,” he said. 

“Remire is not your concern,” Monica said, tightening her grasp. “It has nothing to do with your schemes, or our agreement.”

“Do not speak of our agreement. You have already violated it by letting the Death Knight run amok at the monastery,” Hubert said. He could feel the skin of his wrist begin to smart. “Besides, the Knights of Seiros have become aware of Remire. It is only a matter of time before they do something. Then we will all be exposed.”

“Is that what this is about?” Monica tittered. “Scared of the scrutiny of a few overzealous knights? We aren’t nearly as insecure in our position as you seem to be.” 

“Perhaps you should be more concerned. Once an investigation starts, there’s no telling what they will uncover,” Hubert said. 

There was a loud creak as the double doors to the training grounds began to open. Hubert wrested his wrist from Monica’s grasp and stepped back as a towheaded, broad-shouldered figure entered. With a toss of her hair and hands on her hips, Catherine strolled in. Her eyes, twin beams of Thoron, flickered between Monica and Hubert and the sword still on the ground between them. 

“You kids getting up to trouble in here?” she asked, a roguish smile dancing across her face. 

“Oh, never, Ser Catherine. Just some training,” Monica answered, her hands folded primly behind her back. 

Hubert cleared his throat. “I was just leaving, actually.” 

He nodded in greeting to the knight and exited the training ground. Monica had been infuriatingly reticent, he thought as he made his way to his dormitory, but she had at least confirmed that Those Who Slither in the Dark were connected to Remire. That much was clear. 

In the privacy of his room, Hubert rolled back his sleeve and observed the souvenir of his conversation: five red crescent moons embedded into his arm. The wounds stung but had stopped bleeding, the skin around them inflamed and irritated. They were superficial cuts, meant to send a message rather than injure. And Hubert had heard Monica’s message clearly. He was powerless to stop Those Who Slither in the Dark, at least for now. He would have to endure their machinations, be it in Remire or even at the monastery, for a while longer. 

Despite his best efforts, Hubert failed to hear any more details about Remire Village in the following days. He skulked in the Knight’s Hall and the sauna and the training grounds for hours to no avail. The Knights of Seiros were uncharacteristically tight-lipped about their investigation. After a third day of returning to Edelgard empty-handed, he was forced to admit defeat and relegate the issue to the back of his mind. He rededicated himself to a more pressing matter: their continual push to draw more of their classmates into their fold. 

Bernadetta was Hubert’s suggestion. Her capacity as an archer was unparalleled. And after Byleth forcibly assigned her a battalion, she even became an adept general. Even better was her family’s immense standing army, the largest in the Adrestian Empire after the Imperial Army itself. With Bernadetta’s abilities and resources at their disposal, they would be truly powerful. And so, Edelgard acquiesced to bringing Bernadetta into their plans. She hosted the high-strung archer in her room for tea, with Hubert in taciturn attendance. At the sight of him, Bernadetta adopted a greenish pallor. 

“Y-you’re here to kill me, aren’t you?” she said, quavering in her seat. 

“None of that now, Bernadetta,” Edelgard said firmly. “He’s here as my guest, same as you. Everything is fine.”

Hubert poured three cups of tea, a blend of honeyed-fruit that he personally found cloying, without ceremony. He distributed them silently and returned to his seat. He kept his own gaze fixed before him and projected his movements clearly. He found that these measures kept Bernadetta from jumping in fear every time he twitched. Belatedly, he fished an embroidered flower, a gift from Bernadetta the week before, from his pocket and pinned it to his shirtfront. He tapped it once to bring Bernadetta’s attention to it. 

The flower had the desired effect. Bernadetta’s tremors reduced in their intensity from full-body shakes to a minor tremble in her fingertips. She kept her eyes fixed on the lace tablecloth and ran her fingers over the intricate designs, though she accepted the teacup with her free hand. Edelgard watched her for a time, allowing the tremulous archer time to soothe herself into a more peaceable state. But once the tea had dwindled to the bottom of their cups, Edelgard began to speak. She launched into her dreams with little preamble, plainly naming the Church of Seiros and the system of nobility as her enemies. She explained her intention to unify all of Fodlan under the banner of the Adrestian Empire, to thwart the machinations of the capricious beasts who currently controlled the land.

Throughout the speech, Hubert kept his eyes trained on Bernadetta. Her eyes flashed with terror from the first mention of the Church of Seiros. Her skin took on a sickly pallor. For a moment, Hubert wondered if the news of Edelgard’s plans would overwhelm Bernadetta. He tensed, anticipating the moment that the archer would slump over, unconscious, in her seat. But Bernadetta did not faint, although her face turned paler than Hubert previously considered physically possible. She waited for Edelgard to stop speaking before vigorously shaking her head. She made the entire tea table wobble with the motion. She hunched in her seat, wild mop of violet hair hiding her expression.

“E-E-Edelgard, I c-can’t go to w-war,” she stammered. “Especially n-not against L-Lady Rhea. Sh-she’s really scary!” 

“Certainly, the Church is a formidable foe,” Edelgard agreed, “but one that we can face, especially with your family’s resources.”

At that, Bernadetta’s gray eyes widened comically. 

“M-my family?” she repeated incredulously. “Y-you want me to t-talk to m-my parents about this?” 

At that, Hubert sensed the need to cut in. He discreetly placed two fingers against Edelgard’s arm to express his intent. As always, Edelgard understood him tacitly, leaning back in her seat to make room for him to enter the conversation. 

“We understand you are not fond of Count Varley,” he said. “I observed your interactions with him during his visit last month.”

“T-then you know th-that my answer is no,” Bernadetta said. She sniffled once, then again. She fisted the tablecloth in her hand as she spoke. “I won’t ask my parents for anything. I don’t want to be around my father. I-I-I hope you don’t h-hate me for this.” 

“Actually, Bernadetta, that is exactly what we wanted to hear,” Hubert said. 

“W-wait, really?” 

Bernadetta peered up at him through her bangs, purple lashes fringing her watery gray eyes. She looked too young for what was being asked of her. In truth, Hubert thought, they were all too young for this. But it was what needed to be done. It was the young who must rectify the mistakes of those in power. Hubert nodded encouragingly to Bernadetta, doing his best to plaster a kind smile across his face. It only somewhat seemed to work. 

“Indeed, we find Count Varley as contemptible as you do,” Hubert said. “And in exchange for your support in our war, we would be more than happy to…take care of the Count and install you in his place.”

Bernadetta’s eyebrows disappeared beneath her scruffy bangs. 

“Take care of…” she echoed. “Wh-what do you mean by that?”

Hubert exchanged a glance with Edelgard. Perhaps vowing to murder a potential ally’s father was not the best way to forge an allegiance. He cleared his throat and redirected his thoughts. 

“Nothing too unsavory. We would place him under arrest for crimes against the Crown, either in his own home or somewhere in Enbarr, whichever you would prefer,” he clarified. 

“Y-you could take him to Enbarr? Away from me?” Bernadetta asked. 

“If you so wished,” Hubert said easily. “And we could make suitable arrangements for your mother, whatever those might be.”

“You would do that for me?” Bernadetta said, this time looking at Edelgard. 

Edelgard met Bernadetta’s gaze steadily. 

“Absolutely. That is how important you are to my cause,” Edelgard said. 

The thought of Count Varley’s imprisonment was clearly pleasing to Bernadetta. Hubert watched her cautious, guarded smile emerge as she fumbled with the ties of her hoodie. She nodded once, more an uncertain bobble of her head than anything else. But Edelgard seized upon it. 

“Wonderful!” she said. “Hubert and I will pass on more information as it becomes necessary.”

She clasped Bernadetta’s hands in her own over the table. Bernadetta managed a wider smile, warmth seeping into her expression. Hubert matched with a smile of his own. And so their rebellious coalition grew a bit stronger.

The acquisition of Bernadetta was a welcome victory in the face of Hubert’s continued failure regarding Remire Village. The Knights of Seiros became a dead end after Shamir started voicing exactly how strange she found Hubert’s constant presence in Knight’s Hall. His network of spies was uncharacteristically useless, unable to produce any information of value. After days of getting nowhere, Hubert had resigned himself to never knowing. He was considering when best to admit defeat to Edelgard when Byleth announced their mission for the month.

“We’ll be traveling to Remire Village to help with the situation there,” she said dispassionately. 

The students, who had been milling about the classroom chattering, grew silent. Dorothea raised a hand. 

“And what exactly is the situation?” she asked. “Manuela has been very tight-lipped about the whole affair.”

Byleth arched an eyebrow, but otherwise ignored Dorothea addressing another professor with such familiarity. She was never one to cling to status anyways. This could hardly ruffle her feathers. She waved Dorothea’s hand down. 

“The Knights of Seiros have concluded that powerful blood magic is being used on the people of Remire,” she said. “It’s not clear what the goal of the magic is, although a side effect is that some villagers are becoming aggressive. Almost rabid.” 

At that, Hubert elbowed his way to the front of the group. 

“Rabid?” he repeated.

“Yes, quick to attack and fight, impulsive, and raving,” Byleth said. “They’ve started attacking some of the other villagers.” 

“How strange. I would love the opportunity to study this in person,” Linhardt said. “Are we trying to find a cure?” 

“No, we aren’t anywhere near curing this thing. At least, not that I’m aware,” Byleth said. “Our job is to quell the crazed villagers, however we can, and protect those who haven’t turned.”

“Quell sounds like a euphemism for put down,” Dorothea said, tilting her head to one side. 

“No one said that. It may not even be necessary,” Byleth protested. “Although we should be ready for every possibility.” 

“Who, or what, is the source of the blood magic?” Hubert interjected. 

To that, Byleth shrugged. “The Knights don’t know.”

“So we will be going to Remire with no idea of what we are walking into,” Hubert said, resting his chin on his right hand. “We may help the villagers, but we also may become part of the calamity ourselves.”

“That’s a risk we have to take, Hubert,” Byleth said sternly. It was the closest to snapping the woman had ever gotten. “I owe the people of Remire, and I will not stand by idly. It is our duty to help.”

Feeling chastised, Hubert nodded and dropped his gaze. He could not help the twist of guilt in his stomach, like he had eaten something disagreeable earlier in the day. What did he owe the people of Remire? He had known, or at least suspected, that something foul was afoot for days now. But he had done nothing, told no one, had not even confronted the perpetrators though he was certain who they were. And now people were dying. Yet more collateral damage in the war that he and Edelgard waged. Hubert shook his head. His thoughts were getting away from him. He looked up at Byleth, waiting for her to continue her tirade. But his professor only sighed and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“We’re to head out first thing tomorrow morning,” she said to the class. “I expect to see all of you in the entrance hall — fed and packed and ready to go — at dawn. That’s all.”

She dismissed the class with a nod. Hubert clambered to leave, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. The Professor held him back. 

“Actually, I need to speak with you. Join me for lunch?” 

“Ah, Professor, I was hoping to dine with Lady Edelgard. She and I have much to prepare before we leave for Remire,” Hubert demurred. 

“It will have to wait. This isn’t really a request,” Byleth said, expression neutral. “I’ll see you in the dining hall in twenty.” 

She patted Hubert on the arm and breezed past. She was out of the classroom and down the hallway before he could form a protest. He reported on the situation apologetically to Edelgard, who had been watching from the margins of the classroom, but she waved him off. 

“It’s so like the Professor to do that. Doubtless she has some new insight or pearl of wisdom for you,” Edelgard said. 

She pressed one hand against her cheek, her other arm folded against her breast. She looked every inch like a carefree schoolgirl, daydreaming with her chin in her palm. To Hubert’s surprise, Edelgard giggled. 

“I’m almost jealous,” she said by the way of explanation, when Hubert gave her an incredulous look. “You get to eat with the Professor and hear what she thinks.” 

Hubert frowned. He did not understand why Edelgard insisted on fawning over the Professor so. This sudden demand for a meal was a nuisance, not a favor. But here was Edelgard, blushing and tittering at the thought. Perhaps there was a tactical benefit to building a rapport with Byleth. But did it warrant this level of adoration? If Hubert didn’t know any better, he would think Edelgard had a — 

Hubert’s line of thought came to an abrupt and screeching halt. He looked at Edelgard again with fresh eyes. She was, as usual, immaculately dressed. Her uniform was carefully pressed by Hubert himself and free of any wrinkles. Her cape, light wool in a beautiful Adrestian crimson, hung in neat waves off her shoulder. All was as it should be. But then, why did Hubert’s gaze linger on her? Perhaps it was how her eyes, almond-shaped and lavender as they always were, glittered with new vibrancy. Or it was her cheeks, flushed a lovely pink at the mere mention of her professor. It was something about how she would rock on her feet when she was waiting, shifting from the balls of her feet to her heels, back and forth in a simple dance. It made her look like a simple schoolgirl, not a woman on the cusp of Imperial rule. But Edelgard was far from simple and Hubert would sooner hang than suggest otherwise. 

Then it must be nothing, Hubert decided. A trick of the mind and nothing more. He was not well-versed in the nuances of social interaction, after all. It would be perfectly reasonable that he had misunderstood something. He relegated his strange idea to the back of his mind. 

“I’m sure a meal with the Professor will be quite rewarding,” Hubert said. “But you needn’t feel jealous. She will request your company soon enough.”

At that, Edelgard’s expression dropped into something sweet and open. She smiled plainly. A minute dimple appeared beneath her lip. Hubert noted it with some surprise, wondering what had incited such a reaction. 

“I hope so,” Edelgard said before growing serious. She threw a glance across the now-empty classroom before turning back to Hubert. “I’m worried of what we will find in Remire.”

“Me as well,” Hubert murmured. 

“I… I will not say I regret my decisions, but we have chosen some strange bedfellows, Hubert,” Edelgard whispered. 

“They are a means to an end. And when this is over, we shall dispose of them as well,” Hubert replied. 

Edelgard took his hand in hers. She squeezed tightly, her strength making the grip slightly painful. But Hubert made no move to withdraw. He met her stare evenly, cool lavender against caustic green.

“The blood of Remire is on our hands,” she said. 

He could see the flash of nervousness in her gaze. It soured her expression, twisting her regal features into something frail and childish. He hated how it looked on her. He squeezed her hand once in return, hoping the pressure could wipe away how she looked. 

“That isn’t true,” he assured her. “It is on mine.”

Hubert dropped her hand. He cleared his throat sharply before swinging into a deep bow. 

“I should go. It wouldn’t do to keep the Professor waiting. But I will return afterwards for our next meeting,” he said. 

Edelgard waved him off, her expression never changing. 

The dining hall was relatively calm when Hubert arrived. He attributed it to the odd hour, late for lunch and far too early for dinner, but he did not mind. He had neglected to eat, lost in his work as usual. He was begrudgingly appreciative of being forced to the meal. He ordered a plate of pickled seafood and vegetables before joining Byleth at her table. 

“Professor,” he said by way of greeting. 

“Thank you for joining me,” Byleth said. “We’re waiting on one more.”

Before Hubert could ask her to clarify, Ferdinand took a seat beside him. Hubert shot him a quizzical look, which Ferdinand returned in kind. Hubert rounded on Byleth. 

“Professor, when you invited me to lunch, I assumed it would be the two of us,” he said. 

“I must agree with Hubert,” Ferdinand added. “I thought the same.” 

“Your mistake,” Byleth said, shrugging. She took a bite of her meal and pointed at the two men with her fork. “I need to talk to you both. Plus, we could use a little team-building, don’t you think?”

The burgeoning appreciation Hubert had been feeling towards Byleth promptly vanished. This meal was for the sake of camaraderie, of all things. Hubert could think of better ways to spend his time. He grimaced into his plate. Beside him, Ferdinand made an affronted noise. 

“Must you be so dramatic? It’s just a meal,” Ferdinand sniped.

Hubert felt the sudden heat of annoyance rushing in his veins. It was an instinctive response, the fit of pique as natural taking a breath. A small voice in his head weighed the merits of starting an argument in front of his professor but he pushed it aside. He leveled Ferdinand with an icy stare.

“I’d rather forgo eating than be subjected to your company,” he replied. 

“Well, I would rather—” Ferdinand began.

“Enough!” Byleth interjected. “This baseless rivalry you two have needs to end.”

Ferdinand sniffed delicately. He raised his chin with a typical prideful pout. 

“I would hardly call my feelings baseless. But, for your sake, Professor, I will withhold on quarreling further,” he said. 

“I will do the same. We can continue our fighting elsewhere,” Hubert said, not to be outdone. 

Byleth shook her head. Only the small wrinkle between her brows gave away the depth of her annoyance. She took several measured breaths before she spoke. When she did, it was Hubert that she turned to, boring into him with her level stare. 

“You may not see it, but the two of you are complimentary. Yes, you are.” Byleth held up a hand to stop Hubert from cutting in. “Think of how effectively you two took down Claude at the Battle of Eagle and Lion. He’s a gifted warrior, but you disposed of him with ease. You did that together. If you could consistently work in tandem like that, you’d be unstoppable.”

“I’m already unstoppable,” Hubert said.

“Is that so?” Byleth asked. “Tell me, what will you do the next time you face a brawler? Cower behind your tomes?” 

There was no response to that, because truly, what could Hubert say? She was right. He had faced a brawler only once in recent memory and had been thoroughly beaten up before he could so much as open a spellbook. He stabbed a piece of pickled fish with his fork and said nothing. Ferdinand mirrored the motions, fussing with some greens on his plate instead of speaking. But Hubert could see the sly smile on his face, no doubt due to Hubert’s inability to retort. 

Byleth sighed. “That’s what I thought. That’s a situation where an ally on horseback could come in handy. And there are situations where the reverse would be true as well, Ferdinand.” 

At the sound of his name, Ferdinand glanced up sharply. He patted his lip with a napkin before speaking. 

“What are you suggesting, Professor?” he asked.

“Telling, not suggesting,” Byleth said. “Given your success together in the last major battle, I’ll be sending you into missions together. Starting with Remire at the end of the month, I’ll be deploying the two of you side by side. You’ll have to trust each other with your lives. If that can’t build some mutual respect, nothing will.” 

“I don’t care if you insist on sending Ferdinand along with me during missions, but I will not play babysitter to him,” Hubert said. 

“Babysitter to me! It is I who will be forced to help you,” Ferdinand retorted. 

“Or you both help each other and don’t die grisly deaths,” Byleth deadpanned. Then, softening, she added, “let’s try this, at least for a time. Indulge me this experiment.”

“Has my performance been unsatisfactory to you, Professor?” Ferdinand asked. “That you would resort to these unconventional practices on the battlefield?”

“The opposite, Ferdinand. Your performance has been great,” Byleth said, causing the young man to break into a grin. “That’s why I know I can trust you to do this well.” 

“I am overjoyed to hear that my accomplishments have been so recognized!” Ferdinand crowed. “Why, I must outshine even Edelgard now.”

“You could steal the light of the sun itself and you still would not outshine Lady Edelgard,” Hubert said. But he did not stoop to the level of bickering with Ferdinand again. He turned his attention to Byleth. “Speaking of whom, I cannot be distracted on the battlefield by this one. I must be by Lady Edelgard’s side, in case anything should happen.”

“I don’t think Edelgard needs you to protect her,” Byleth said. “Besides, I’ll be with her.”

“I am to trust that you will protect the future of the Empire?” Hubert asked. 

“I’ve saved Edelgard’s life before. And I would do it again,” Byleth replied readily. “You need not trust me completely, but you should trust in my commitment to keeping Edelgard — to keeping all my students safe.”

The steel in her voice convinced Hubert. There was no denying how fervently the Professor valued her students’ lives. Even beyond that, there was a glint in Byleth’s eyes when she mentioned saving Edelgard, a spark of tenacity that said yes, I would happily dive before a blade to save the Imperial Princess. Hubert understood that impulse. He would gladly give his own life for Edelgard. Having known her for as long as he had, he knew that was a trade worth making. And it seemed, Hubert realized with a startle, that Byleth knew that too. 

“I… I do trust that,” Hubert said, surprising himself with the admission. “But I still have my reservations about this…plan.” 

That was only a half-truth, Hubert recognized in his mind. Tactically speaking, the Professor was right. There were clear advantages to deploying the two of them together. But Hubert was not about to admit that in front of Ferdinand. And, if his suspicions were correct, Ferdinand would reject this idea outright. 

“I would not suggest this unless I truly thought it would make you both stronger,” Byleth said. 

Ferdinand sighed. He angled himself towards Hubert ever so slightly, as if he were too repugnant a creature to face head-on. Hubert readied himself for the inevitable rejection and prepared a stinging volley of insults with which to retaliate. 

“I am…willing to put aside our differences in the hopes of becoming better soldiers… For the good of the Empire,” Ferdinand said haltingly. 

There was an earnestness in his speech that kept Hubert from rebuffing the offer outright. Perhaps it was imagined, but he sounded almost hopeful. Hopeful for what, a future in which they were trusted comrades in arms? It was too fanciful to even imagine. But, Hubert thought, building allegiances within the Black Eagles was his ongoing task. And here was Byleth handing him the perfect opportunity. What better way to earn Ferdinand’s trust? Perhaps it would help sway this lover of nobility over to Edelgard’s cause. There was a strategic benefit to this, no matter how abhorrent Hubert might personally find it. He swallowed his surprise and nodded jerkily to Ferdinand. 

“I will do the same,” he said, unable to look at anything but his plate. 

“That’s a good start,” Byleth said. “Let’s get into the details then.”

She launched into descriptions of various maneuvers involving a cavalryman and a warlock, supplying neatly drawn schematics to supplement her words. Hubert had to admit that Byleth had a point. There was much to be gained through working together. He leaned closer to catch every detail of her plans. He knew there was trouble waiting for them all in Remire. If working with Ferdinand would better prepare him to face it, then he would do exactly that.

After the meal, Hubert made his way to Edelgard’s room for his second tea of the day. He wrinkled his nose at the thought as he stepped inside. No one had told him that the spymaster’s duties included constant surreptitious tea parties. Edelgard caught sight of his expression and frowned. 

“Something the matter, Hubert?” she asked as he took his seat beside her at the small tea table. 

“Ah, nothing really. Just… ginger tea,” he said darkly. 

Edelgard rolled her eyes, but said nothing. A barrage of heavy knocks rang out against the dormitory door. Hubert jumped to his feet. 

“I must let him in before he alerts the entire monastery,” he grumbled under his breath.

He yanked open the door and in tumbled Caspar. He greeted them loudly before clattering into his seat at the tea table. Hubert shut the door and returned to his seat with a dour look. He poured tea for the three of them, the spicy aroma of ginger filling the small space. He took a sip, wincing at the mild burn of the ginger in his sinuses. 

“Why’d you want to have tea?” Caspar prompted after sipping his own tea politely. 

“We have an opportunity for you,” Edelgard said. “A chance to prove yourself as the second son of House Bergliez.” 

That caught Caspar’s attention. He leaned forward over the table in excitement. 

“Is it a fight?” he asked, flexing his fingers with anticipation. 

“Not quite, though your combat abilities will be called upon for much of it,” Edelgard said. 

“Well, come on, tell me what it is,” Caspar demanded. 

“The concept of nobility is decaying, and it’s dragging the Empire into the ground with it,” Edelgard said. 

“Wow, going there right from the start, huh?” Caspar said as he bit into a scone. “Sure, that’s true, but it’s not like the world is ever going to change, right?” 

“It must,” Edelgard said. “I intend to change it. In a few months time, I intend to reshape Fodlan. I will form it into a world where the best are free to rise to the top and succeed, regardless of their bloodline. The nobility as it exists now will be eradicated. The age of Crests will end. And with them will go the Church of Seiros and its hold on this continent’s people."

Caspar paused in his eating. He put the scone onto his plate, dumbfounded. 

“What do you mean ‘reshape?’” he asked. 

“I will declare war on the Church of Seiros,” Edelgard said. “They are ones at the center of this. I have evidence that they have manipulated humanity to keep it weak, to preserve their control over us. They must be overthrown in order to destroy the old systems. Then, I will unify Fodlan under the banner of the Adrestian Empire. All of Fodlan will know freedom under my reign.” 

“And what, you want me to fight for you?” Caspar said. 

“Exactly. And depending on your performance in such a war, you could be appointed as a general or as the Minister of Military Affairs. That is, if you demonstrated the capacity for such a position,” Edelgard said. 

Hubert fought the urge to smirk at this comment. What better way than to win over a second son, inheritor of nothing, than the promise of glory through battle? Caspar seemed intrigued by the offer. He used one hand to rub his unruly blue hair as he thought, his blue eyes darting from one spot to the next. They finally landed on Edelgard before stopping. 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do after we graduate,” he said finally. “But I know I want to train, get stronger, and use my abilities to cut my own path. I guess I’ll do that by fighting for you.” 

“Is that so?” Edelgard asked, caught off guard by how readily Caspar agreed.

Caspar shrugged. “It sounds like my life would pretty much stay the same. I would still need to prove myself, just like now. I don’t see why not.”

“Well, I certainly won’t be one to dissuade you,” Edelgard said. She smiled brightly. “I’m very pleased to have you on our side.”

Caspar grinned broadly. “I’m excited to fight! It sounds like there’s going to be a lot of that! I’m going to start training even harder to prepare.”  
  
“Yes, well, don’t tell people what you’re training for,” Edelgard said, throwing out a cautionary hand. “We need to utmost discretion. Please do not mention this to anyone else.”

“You got it, Edelgard,” Caspar said. “My lips are sealed.”

He raised his teacup in a toast, a gesture Hubert hesitatingly reciprocated. The three cups clinked together, the ginger tea sloshing about, but never spilling over. As Hubert took a sip of his tea, he met Edelgard’s eyes. This is progress, her gaze seemed to say. We are closer than ever before. 

The Black Eagles began the march to Remire Village the next day. It was an unremarkable, if at times miserable, trip. The northern wind howled across the barren lands. A biting chill seeped into Hubert’s bones, no matter how many layers he wore. He shivered constantly beneath his billowing warlock’s robes. On the third day of marching, the thick cover of clouds retreated. But the sun that emerged was too feeble to provide any warmth. If anything, the wind picked up even stronger, unhindered by the lack of clouds. But the cold was unmatched by the dread that had taken root in Hubert’s stomach. It grew stronger with each step he took towards Remire, the creeping vines of doubt and worry wrapping their way around his lungs, making his breath falter. It filled his mind with terrifying possibilities. For the six days of marching he imagined a veritable sideshow of horrors that they might arrive upon. But all his daydreams did not prepare him for the carnage that awaited him in Remire Village. 

The first thing Hubert noticed was the smell. An acrid odor hung in the air. It filled his nostrils and coated his tongue, leaving a burnt metallic taste behind that no amount of water would wash away. Then came the smoke, a dark column visible for miles, an ugly blot against the clear sky. It settled heavily over the land, thick and choking and obfuscating their vision. The feeling of the road beneath Hubert’s feet was the only confirmation that he was still moving in the right direction. That, and the feeling of the rest of the Black Eagles around him, their own nervous energies adding to the haze. The iron fist of anxiety clenched tight around his heart. 

Remire finally swam into view and Hubert’s breath caught in his throat. The thatched roofs of the village were alight. Red flames licked at their walls, greedily swallowing everything in their path. The village burned crimson in the dying light of day. 

“Kill! Kill! Ahhhh!”

A wretched scream tore through the air. Hubert jerked his head in its direction in time to see a rampager gut his neighbor. 

“They’re attacking each other,” he gasped. 

“This is so much more terrible than I expected,” Edelgard said, following his line of sight. 

The rampager staggered away from the body at his feet. He lurched towards the village center, blade dragging on the ground behind him. 

“We need to save this village. Those crazed people are going to kill everybody,” Byleth said. 

“How do you suggest we proceed?” Hubert asked. 

Caspar looked up from where he was strapping on a pair of gauntlets. 

“They’re all attacking each other! Let’s knock them all out, one by one,” he said.

“Wait, look there!” Edelgard pointed.

There, beyond the village’s edge, stood a huddled group of mages. Yellowed eyes peered out from the shadows of their hoods. They studied the chaos of Remire at a distance with a clinical interest. Those Who Slither in the Dark had come to watch their plan unfold. 

“They seem to be observing,” Hubert said. 

“They must be behind this,” Edelgard said. “Let’s eliminate them and rescue the unaffected villagers. Right, Professor?”

Byleth nodded. She began calling out orders. True to her promise, she sent Ferdinand and Hubert north together to sweep the village for rampagers. They made their way through the burning haze of the streets. Ferdinand rode ahead while Hubert brought up the rear. The smoke scorched Hubert’s lungs, made his breath come quick and ragged. As they rounded a corner, a rampager came into view. 

He was young, no older than Hubert himself. He wore the vestments of a villager, though his dull tunic was splattered with fresh blood that was not his own. His face was a rictus of rage. His eyes held no spark of humanity. He advanced on a cowering villager, sword poised to strike. 

“No! Leave her be!” Ferdinand called out.

He dashed ahead, leaning forward in his saddle in an effort to spur his mount forward. But it was too late. While Ferdinand was still an arms’ length away, the rampager brought down his sword with inhuman strength. The blade bit deep into the villager’s shoulder. She threw her head back and screamed as blood rushed forth from the wound. The rampager kicked her to the ground, where she lay, writhing in pain. He raised the blade once more. 

Before he could strike again, Ferdinand was upon him. With a mighty grunt, he thrust his lance, impaling the rampager on its blade. He pulled his lance free and attacked again, this time scoring a jagged red gash across his chest. The rampager collapsed in a heap. Hubert tore his eyes away from the fight, instead rushing to the villager who was now unmoving on the ground. There was so much blood. It spurted out of the wound at intervals, each beat of her heart pushing more and more of the blood out of her body. Hubert pushed down on the wound, wishing, for once, that he had any capacity for white magic. The woman’s round white face grew paler by the minute. Hubert struggled to his feet with the woman in his arms. But he was too weak to carry her far, this unresponsive dead weight. 

“Ferdinand!” Hubert yelled into the smoke. He had lost sight of the cavalier only moments ago; he must be close. “Ferdinand!”

There was no response. Hubert hoisted the woman’s good arm over his shoulder and wrapped one hand around her waist. In this fashion he dragged her towards the medical tent that had been set up. It was clumsy work, but a frenzied sense of urgency settled into Hubert’s mind. He had to save this woman. He called for Ferdinand as he stumbled forward, his voice cracking from the smoke and strain. 

After a few steps, the villager’s body, slick and dark with blood, slipped from his hands and slumped onto the ground. She was bleeding too much. Hubert hunched over her again, pushing with all his might against the wound in a futile effort to staunch the flow. His own white gloves were stained crimson from the attempt, as the blood soaked through their material and into his palm. Blazes, why hadn’t Hubert ever learned white magic? Or even some basic first aid?

“Ferdinand!” he tried again, desperation leaking into his voice.

“Hubert!”

The relief Hubert felt at hearing his name was unparalleled. He waved Ferdinand over, who dismounted from his horse and knelt beside him. 

“You have to— I can’t carry— help!” Hubert managed to spit out. 

Ferdinand did not move. His eyes darkened as he watched Hubert’s meager attempts to hold fast the wound. 

“Do something,” Hubert urged. “Don’t you know healing magic?”

“Hubert, it is too late,” Ferdinand said gently. 

“No, use your healing, damn it!” Hubert yelled. 

“I have none I can use as a cavalier,” Ferdinand said, pointing out the obvious. “Besides, no magic can bring back the dead.”

He stood and turned away. Hubert stared down at the dead woman with a sense of dismay. Ferdinand was right: the woman was gone. Hubert closed her eyelids, leaving a streak of blood across her face. He swallowed once, then again, then a third time, but he could not force back the bile that rose in his throat. It was unlike him to be so affected by a corpse. He was no stranger to death. And yet, this woman’s face stuck in his mind, even after he stumbled away from her, following Ferdinand deeper into the heart of the village. 

It was guilt, he realized as they moved forward, searching for other trapped villagers. He picked his way through the burning streets and felt the hot brand of shame against his skin. This was his doing. It may not be by his hand that these people fell ill, but it was by his willingness to do nothing. How long had he known that Those Who Slither in the Dark were planning something? He did not investigate further. He did not try to stop them. No, he watched as they plunged this village into darkness. Hubert gritted his teeth against the thought. Even if this was his fault, it was a sacrifice that had to be made. Edelgard’s path to greatness was littered with bodies, all like that woman. But it would be worth it in the end. It had to be. 

“Hubert, get ready.”

Ferdinand’s sharp call interrupted his musings. Ahead, a group of rampagers were trying to take down someone’s front door. They took turns throwing their forms at it, desperate to force their way inside. One hacked at the door with a hatchet while others tore at the wood until their fingers bled. 

From several feet away, Hubert opened a tome. He would need to disperse the rampagers before they broke inside. If they got through the door, it was over for whoever hid on the other side. He aimed his right hand, palm forward, at the rampagers. In a practiced motion, he traced the sigil for Banshee. A cone of black energy burst through the men, sending them flying in every direction. The rush of magic stole the air from Hubert’s lungs. As he doubled over gasping, he was dimly aware of Ferdinand stampeding into the fray. 

A figure loomed into his view. There was a flurry of motion, the heavy impact of fist against bone, and Hubert fell backwards. Pain radiated out from his cheekbone, across his jaw. His eyes streamed out of reflex, obliterating his vision. He curled up protectively, groaning. But he could not recover in peace. Someone was on him, clawing at him, yanking his arms away from his face. Hubert kicked his legs in protest. But the weight would not leave. It was suffocating him. Through his tears he could see a fist raised. He braced for impact. 

It wasn’t until he smelt the metallic tang of blood, felt its warmth against his face, that he realized he wasn’t hit. He blinked his eyes clear as the weight of the dead rampager was heaved off of his body. Ferdinand swam into view, face smudged with ash and viscera. He pulled Hubert to his feet with ease, the weight of the mage nothing to him. Hubert glared, before it occurred to him that he should probably feel grateful. 

“Thank you,” he managed, rubbing a hand against his cheek. 

He winced as he did it. The glove was rough, encrusted with dried blood, and it scraped against the raw skin of his face. Ferdinand tracked the ungainly motion with his eyes.

“Certainly,” he said, though he did not revel in it. “I took care of the others. Do you need to see a healer for that?” 

The concern in Ferdinand’s voice caught Hubert off guard. He considered snarking about how Ferdinand did not need to look after him, but his cheek really did hurt. The comforting warmth of a healing spell would not be remiss.

“I might,” Hubert admitted. He surveyed the surrounding area. “But…are there more villagers?” 

Hubert was not one for heroics and he would greatly prefer for his cheek to be healed. But the prickling sense of guilt under his skin would not allow him to rest if there were more people to be saved. The searing sense of responsibility for Remire was more painful than any flesh wound. But Ferdinand could not know that. Would you feel any concern for me, Hubert wondered, if you knew that I had caused this? He did not need to ask aloud; he knew the answer. 

“Comrades!” 

Petra emerged from the shadows. Hubert jumped at the sound of her voice. He hadn’t noticed Petra at all over the roar of flames. 

“Petra, is everything alright?” Ferdinand asked. 

Petra nodded her head, her braid bouncing with the motion. 

“I am here to be telling you most of the villagers are saved,” she said. “We must be focusing on those shadowy figures now.”

“We didn’t save everyone,” Hubert said. 

Petra glanced at him, surprise dancing across her features briefly, before she schooled her expression back into neutrality. 

“This is true, but there is nothing being— to be done,” she said. “I am needing to find others to deliver my message to them.”

“Very well. Hubert and I shall fall back to the main army,” Ferdinand said. 

Petra nodded once before disappearing into the shadows once more. Hubert and Ferdinand dutifully picked their way through the village streets. The village fell silent. No more terrified screams or enraged groans, not even the crackling of the flames. The buildings smoldered silently, wrapping the roads in a dim orange light. 

“Is that… Hubert, do you see Tomas there?” Ferdinand said suddenly. 

He pointed and, following the line of his arm, Hubert caught sight of the man as well. Tomas, still in his Church of Seiros robes, stood on a small hillock overlooking the village. The rest of the Black Eagles were encroaching on him slowly, surrounding the man and the small guard that accompanied him. 

“Tomas, what are you doing here? Dare I even ask?” 

Edelgard’s question carried easily to Hubert, his ears always pricked for his lady’s call. But he and Ferdinand were too far away to assist. They watched helplessly as Tomas threw his head back to laugh. 

“I’m not Tomas,” he said. “My name is Solon, the savior of all!”

A black whirlwind overtook Tomas’ form, whipping up the air around him. When it dissipated, Tomas was gone. In his place was a pale, hunched man. His forehead bulged grotesquely above two iris-less eyes. Strange black markings ringed his right eye, indelibly dark against his paper-white skin. His wrinkled mouth twisted into a sneer. 

“What’s the matter?” Solon crowed. “So shocked you can’t even speak? You were so easily fooled by my disguise… I was hiding away in Garreg Mach to get the blood of that little girl called Flayn. With her blood, I’ll be one step closer to realizing our goal.”

“We need to—” Hubert began, but he was cut off by the clatter of hooves nearby. 

The Death Knight lumbered into view on the other side of the street. On his monstrous steed, he loomed taller than any normal man, his broad shoulders encased in black plate that reflected the dying orange lights of the fires. He twirled his scythe in his hand, sending sparks of black and purple magic in every direction. 

“I’ll have a bit of fun here too,” he said in a low rumble. 

Hubert stepped back. He did not expect the Death Knight to be here. But now the man was before them, too close, and they were too far from the main army for reinforcements. They needed to run, before the Death Knight made any brash choices.

Unfortunately for Hubert, Ferdinand did not feel the same. He brandished a horseslayer, spinning the weapon in his hand with practiced ease. He leveled a hard stare at the Death Knight before sparing a glance to Hubert. 

“Are you ready?” he asked. “It is time to prove our mettle.”

“No, let us return to the main army. We cannot take this enemy alone,” Hubert said. 

“I admit my opinion of you is not very high, but I have never taken you for a coward,” Ferdinand replied. “We must stand and fight. This villain has evaded us for too long.”

At that, the Death Knight chuckled. His red eyes landed on Hubert and he crooked a finger at him, beckoning on the fight. The man is crazed, Hubert thought. He would cut down anyone, even his allies, if it meant the rush of battle. 

“It is not cowardice that motivates me, but practicality,” Hubert argued. He reached up and placed a cautionary hand against Ferdinand’s leg, the only part of the man he could easily reach. “This is not a battle you and I can win together.”

Hubert felt Ferdinand’s thigh tense under his hand, but he did not remove it. He looked up at Ferdinand with urgency. 

“The Professor told us to trust each other,” Hubert said. “You need to trust me now. We should retreat.” 

The Death Knight began to trace a sigil in their direction. Hubert felt his hair begin to stand on end as electricity filled the air. 

“Ferdinand, please!”

Without a word, Ferdinand grabbed Hubert by the arm and heaved him onto the horse. Relief flooded Hubert as they galloped away from the Death Knight. A crack of Thunder came down against them, missing them by inches, but Ferdinand did not falter. He leaned forward in the saddle, urging the horse onwards. Hubert wrapped his hands around Ferdinand’s waist and prayed that he would not fall off as they flew through the streets of Remire. The Death Knight, thankfully, did not pursue. 

Galloping at full-tilt, it took mere moments to rejoin the main army, though to Hubert it felt like lifetimes. When he dismounted Ferdinand’s steed, his limbs were gelatinous, trembling to bear even his weight. As he steadied himself, he heard a familiar battle cry. 

“It’s over!” Byleth yelled. 

She blocked a spell from Solon with the Sword of the Creator. The blast of dark energy exploded against the blade harmlessly. She pivoted on her heel and brought up her left fist in a fierce uppercut to Solon’s jaw. As the mage hit the ground, she pressed her boot against his neck and loomed over him. 

“Why have you gone after this village? What are you planning?” Byleth demanded. 

Solon looked at ease under her boot, her blade at his neck. He chuckled.

“This village is not special,” he said, as if he were explaining a simple matter to a child. “It could have been any village, any test subjects. Remire was convenient.”

“Then I have no use for you,” Byleth snarled. 

She raised her sword, the tip aimed at Solon’s heart. But a flash of purple enveloped Solon and he transported away. With a frustrated yell, Byleth plunged her sword into the dirt where Solon lay. 

“He got away,” she said heavily. 

Edelgard walked up to Byleth. She gently pressed a bloodied hand to her teacher’s shoulder, the gesture giving away some untold intimacy between them. It was incongruous with the chaos of the still-smoldering Remire. Byleth leaned into the touch. She pulled her sword from the ground and turned to her students. 

“Let’s do a sweep of the village, find any stragglers,” she said. “And get yourself to the medical tent if you need healing.”

The Black Eagles dispersed. Hubert found himself walking beside Ferdinand in the direction of the medics. They fell into step with each other without a word. 

“Are you hurt as well?” Hubert asked to interrupt the uncomfortable silence that stretched between them. 

Ferdinand indicated a gash in his upper-left thigh. Someone had landed a hit in the small gap of his armor between his breastplate and his chausses. 

“It is not severe, but it requires some attention,” Ferdinand said. 

They lapsed back into silence as they waited in the medical tent. Linhardt rushed about healing, the effort causing a thin sheen of sweat to appear on his brow. Hubert watched the healer, but could not shake the feeling that he needed to say something. He glanced at Ferdinand, who was waiting patiently with his hands folded in his lap. Ferdinand noticed his gaze and quirked an eyebrow at Hubert. 

“You, ah, you comported yourself well on the battlefield today,” Hubert said, careful to allow only the scantest bit of appreciation to color his words. 

Despite the moderation, the comment made Ferdinand beam.

“Why, thank you, Hubert,” he said with genuine feeling. “You were quite effective yourself.”

Hubert hummed in agreement. Unsure what else there was to say, he stared down at his shoes. He shuffled his feet on the camp floor, throwing up small clouds of dirt. Ferdinand leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh, folding his arms and dropping his chin into his chest. 

“Thank you for listening to me…about the Death Knight,” Hubert said after a pause.

“I could hardly charge ahead when you were certain it would mean our doom,” Ferdinand replied without looking up. “I took what the Professor said — and what you reminded me — quite seriously. We must trust one another if we are to survive.”

It was only human that Hubert should feel a pang of shame at that. Any trust Ferdinand felt would surely evaporate if he were to know the depths of Hubert’s deception. And yet, duty demanded that Hubert foster this trust, nurture it and allow it to grow between them, so that Ferdinand might take up arms against the Church one day soon. Hubert was intimately familiar with duplicity, but for once it left him feeling sullied. But that did not stop him from forging ahead. He glared at the space between his feet as he spoke, willing his feelings away. 

“Well, you have earned some small part of my trust today,” he said. 

That made Ferdinand look up, startled. He stared for a beat before relaxing back into his chair. 

“I could say the same to you,” he said softly. 

Linhardt strode up to Hubert and Ferdinand. His sweat-slicked hair was dark, almost black against his face. He pushed a few errant strands back before peering at the two of them, his wide blue eyes lingering on their wounds. His face grew a few shades paler as he took in their bloodied forms. 

“Ferdinand, you first. That looks deep,” Linhardt said. 

He kneeled down beside Ferdinand and began to heal. In his own seat, Hubert allowed his mind to rest. He was always weary after a battle, and Remire was no different. If anything, it was worse. And the longer he was forced to stay in the village, the worse it would be. He hoped fervently that they would march back to Garreg Mach that night. Perhaps then he could wash his hands of this whole fiasco. 

But even after his healing, Hubert could not rest. Edelgard informed him of one final task he would take on that night. At the appointed hour, he made his way to the outskirts of Remire Village, careful to avoid any Black Eagles and their battalions. He settled in the shadows of one of the few houses in Remire that still stood and waited. Before long, Byleth wandered into view with Jeralt at her side. They appeared deep in conversation, though Hubert was too far to hear any of it. The Flame Emperor approached them. As they spoke, Byleth and Jeralt’s faces hardened into cold masks of fury. Hubert did not need to hear to see that whatever Edelgard had hoped to achieve with this appearance had failed. At the correct moment, when the Flame Emperor was poised to leave, Hubert made his move. 

“Jeralt, Professor! Have you seen Lady Edelgard?” he yelled as he crashed into the clearing. 

Byleth and Jeralt both turned in his direction, distracted by the panic Hubert allowed to lace his voice. 

“What’s wrong, kid?” Jeralt started. He whipped back around, but it was too late. “Damn it! He’s gone…”

In the moment of Hubert’s distraction, the Flame Emperor vanished. It was a crude plan, cobbled together to satisfy Edelgard’s last-minute demand to appeal to Byleth as the Flame Emperor, but it was executed correctly. That, at least, Hubert could take pride in, even though he did not understand the purpose of this theater at all. 

The Black Eagles settled on spending the rest of the night in Remire. They pitched tents on the outskirts of town, after having thoroughly scoured the landscape in search of the Flame Emperor to no avail. Hubert waited until most of the camp had fallen asleep, their lanterns dimmed or turned off completely, before he slipped out of his tent and into Edelgard’s. The Imperial Princess was still up, dressed in her school uniform and with a steaming cup of tea, when Hubert arrived. She nodded in greeting, not asking why he had appeared. She was perfectly accustomed to this sort of impromptu meeting, at least from Hubert. At Edelgard’s insistence, Hubert settled beside her on the camp floor, legs folded awkwardly beneath him. Edelgard put down the papers she was reading. 

“I assume you have an opinion on what I have done,” she said, “so you might as well come out and say it. No need to sit silently in judgement.”

Hubert sighed through his nose and looked away. 

“I know I am in no position to pass judgement on you, Lady Edelgard,” he said, “but I cannot help but question this recent decision of yours.”

“The decision to speak to Byleth?” she said. 

Hubert nodded. He swallowed once, gathering the requisite courage to begin this argument once again. He balled his hands into fists. 

“It was an unnecessary risk, my Lady, and the type that you are prone to around Byleth,” he said. “And what did you even stand to gain?”

“I did not realize you felt so strongly about this plan. Yet you did not try to stop me when I suggested it,” Edelgard said.

“I did not think it possible to try and convince you otherwise,” Hubert said. “Not when it involved the Professor.”

Edelgard turned a bit pink at that, though her annoyed expression detracted from the overall effect of the blush. 

“Huh! You presume to know me that well?” she snapped. 

“Was I incorrect, my Lady?” Hubert asked. 

That drew another scoff from Edelgard. She crossed her arms and glowered at Hubert for a moment. He stared back with a neutral expression. They paused like that for a moment, locked together, before Edelgard huffed resignedly. 

“No, you were not,” she said. She shook her head. When she spoke again, she sounded smaller. “I do not blame you for questioning the decision. But I needed her to know.”

“Know what?” Hubert asked. 

“That this was not my doing!” Edelgard said. She seized Hubert’s hands in her own. “This was horrific. Terrible beyond words. If… If the Professor thinks that I did this, that I sanctioned it, she will never join me!”

“Is her opinion of you worth this risk?” Hubert asked.

“You don’t understand. I need her… I need her to know that this isn’t what I stand for, Hubert,” Edelgard insisted. “I could not bear it if she thought this possible of me. Even if she did not join me… I would never want her to think me such a monster.”

Edelgard’s hands trembled in his. Hubert stared. He could not recall the last time he had seen Edelgard so distraught. She was completely unlike herself. Her lavender eyes were wide with panic. The pearly white lashes that ringed them were dewey with tears. The stoic set of her mouth had a telltale tremble that gave away the depth of her emotion. 

“Lady Edelgard, what has overcome you?” Hubert demanded. “What does it matter what that woman thinks of you? She is nobody. She means nothing.”

Tears streaked silver across Edelgard’s face, dashing down the expanse of her cheeks and onto their clasped hands. Hubert moved automatically to retrieve a handkerchief from his pocket and begin to dry the tears. Edelgard caught his hand in her own once more. Hubert swallowed and reluctantly met his liege’s gaze. He could not bear to see the vulnerability that lay there. 

“She means everything, Hubert,” Edelgard said, her voice shaking. “I- I- I love her.” 

Hubert winced at the admission. It was a lance through his heart, the stark and undeniable evidence that even she, his Lady Edelgard, was merely human after all. Even she could be so vexed by something as mundane as love. He furrowed his brow and shut his eyes. 

“Are… are you sure?” Hubert asked, knowing immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. 

“Am I- do you think I would endure the shame of telling you this if I were not sure?” Edelgard snapped, her face a brilliant crimson now. She buried her face in her hands once more. “I am no better than a besotted schoolgirl. I love her and some days I dream that she loves me back. That she comes to my side. That she guides me on this path I must take.” 

Edelgard looked so unlike herself then, curled up on herself and wretched with tears. Love had left her a raw and aching husk of who she was. All of her ambition, her intellect, her energy, drained of her by these feelings! Hubert felt a rush of fury, though he could not tell where to direct it. He would stop Edelgard from feeling so pitiful, even if it meant striking out into riskier territory. 

“If she does not choose you,” he said suddenly, taking Edelgard by the shoulders, “then she is an utter fool.”

“Choose me?” Edelgard said, looking up at Hubert. “Do you mean to suggest we tell her?” 

“No, in fact, I am firmly against the idea,” Hubert said. “But if you feel this strongly about her, then we must consider it an option. Besides, she is powerful enough that her presence could be influential in the coming war. That alone could justify the risk.”

He did not fully disagree with this analysis. Bringing Byleth to their side was a high-risk, high-reward strategy, and Hubert was far too cautious a man to go in on a bet like that. But Edelgard was bolder than he. If she chose this path, despite all the warnings against it, Hubert would obediently follow. He grit his teeth as Edelgard sucked in a breath.

“I want to tell her,” she said. “But not now, not with Remire in our recent memories.”

Internally Hubert sighed. Such was the power of love. It would drive even the most shrewd and calculating of leaders to make erratic choices such as this. He knew he would not be able to dissuade Edelgard from this decision. All he could do now was make sure they succeeded in spite of it.

“I agree. We must first distance ourselves from this,” Hubert said. “Perhaps in the coming months, you could approach her.”

Edelgard nodded thoughtfully. Hubert could already see her forming an argument, crafting a speech to win Byleth to their side. They spoke no more of the matter as Edelgard prepared for bed, Hubert dutifully setting out her bedroll and brushing free her hair in preparation. But both were united in their thoughts, considering all that had been discussed. As Hubert took his leave that night and settled into his own bedroll he wondered if he had made the right choice. He whispered the question aloud into the empty air of the tent. But there was, as expected, no response.


	11. Ethereal Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! Here is the 11th installment of Red Knight, Black Bishop. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Please let me know what you think in the comments or on twitter @axe_faire

The specter of Remire haunted Ferdinand well past the Black Eagles’ triumphant return to Garreg Mach. He could not forget the howls of the villagers as their kin turned against them or the voracious flames that consumed the everything in their path. In his dreams, he revisited Remire often. His mind reproduced with frightening accuracy the noise his lance made as he forced it through a rampager. He could still smell the acrid odor of burning flesh. He could still hear the panic that laced people’s voices as they screamed. He could still feel the vicious bite of a blade in his leg. He woke from those dreams bathed in sweat and wholly unrested. 

After the eighth night of such disrupted sleep, fed up and exhausted, Ferdinand sought out Byleth. He hosted a tea in his dormitory, though his sleepless brain could not recall what her favorite tea was. He was sure to include a veritable mountain of pastries, however, as the Professor’s appetite was unparalleled. Surely enough, when Byleth arrived, she immediately grabbed a sausage roll and began to eat.

“I am glad you could make it, Professor,” Ferdinand said in greeting. 

He poured them both steaming cups of Hresvelg blend. It was a bit of an indulgence to be sure, as the blend’s use of first flush leaves raised its price significantly. But Ferdinand excused himself for it. Given all that had happened last month, he could forgive this purchase. His eyes fluttered shut as he savored a sip of the tea. Not even sleeplessness could rid him of his appreciation for this exquisite beverage. 

“This is Edelgard’s favorite tea,” Byleth noted as she sipped. 

“That makes sense. She was likely raised on it,” Ferdinand commented. “It is delectable, is it not?”

Byleth nodded politely. Having polished off the sausage roll, she returned to the pastry stand with renewed interest. Ferdinand watched her pick a slice of strawberry cake off the stand and place it on her plate. Before she could delve in, he spoke. 

“I asked you here today to discuss our last mission,” he said. 

“What about it?” Byleth asked. 

She hummed in enjoyment as she took a bite of her cake. Ferdinand wavered in his determination to share his feelings. It went against his polite instincts to bring up such difficult topics during a pleasant tea. But the exhaustion that weighed down his eyelids convinced him to say something. He could not perform at his best if things continued as they were. He sighed before speaking. 

“I cannot forget Remire,” Ferdinand said. Byleth looked up from her plate as he continued. “The battle haunts me, in a way I have not felt since Zanado. I dream of it — well, nightmares, really. I have not known rest since we returned.” 

Byleth tossed aside her fork, cake forgotten. Her brows drew together and her mouth curled into a frown. Ferdinand noted the expression with surprise. His professor was typically prone to stoicism, but perhaps Remire had shaken her as well. 

“You too, huh?” Byleth said. 

Unsure how to respond, Ferdinand nodded. Byleth signed once through her nose before looking at him. When she did, her eyes were dark. A casual passerby could believe Byleth’s expression to be one of mild annoyance. But Ferdinand knew his professor better than that. The harsh set of her mouth gave away her deep and uncharacteristic anger. 

“I am not typically affected by my work in this way, but remembering Remire makes me furious,” Byleth said, her voice trembling with the effort of maintaining a neutral tone. “What Solon did… he destroyed so many lives. And he still walks free.”

“The Knights of Seiros are searching for him, are they not?” Ferdinand asked.

“Yes, and they have found nothing. The bastard is more slippery than we thought,” Byleth said. 

It was the first time Ferdinand had heard his professor curse. He quirked an eyebrow at it, but did not comment further on the impropriety. He extended his hand to Byleth, who blinked in surprise before placing her own hand in his. Ferdinand could feel the rough callouses of her palms, even through his glove. It was a hand hardened by years of wielding a sword. Despite that, her touch was gentle. Her palm rested lightly in Ferdinand’s own for only a moment before she drew it away again.

The contact seemed to bring Byleth back to herself. She shook her head gently. When she met Ferdinand’s gaze again, her expression was smoothed and impenetrable once again.

“I’m sorry, I let my emotions get the best of me,” Byleth said. “Since I began teaching here, it has been happening more and more.”

“There is nothing to apologize for, Professor,” Ferdinand said. “Anyone would be agitated by what happened in Remire.” 

“Like you?” Byleth asked pointedly. 

Ferdinand had not put a name to what he felt when he thought of Remire. The memories of the village brought forth a churning, roiling motion in his gut. They made bile rise in his throat, bringing with it the urge to retch. He had thought it a sign of weakness, the reaction of a soldier who was too green for the battlefield.

“I am afraid so,” he said. “I know it to be a failing on my part, but Remire will not leave me be, no matter how I try.”

“Having feelings isn’t a failing,” Byleth said. She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “You cannot forget Remire because our work there isn’t done. The man responsible hasn’t been caught.” 

“Then what, I cannot rest until we find Solon?” Ferdinand asked. 

“Nothing as dramatic as that,” Byleth said, waving away his concern. “I’ll get you some herbs from the greenhouse for good sleep. My suggestion is to realign your thoughts. Work knowing that your goal, our goal, is to strike down Solon. Remind yourself that Remire isn’t just some tragedy of the recent past, but a people that you will avenge.” 

Ferdinand was not sure he wanted to strive towards vengeance. It was a bold and dramatic goal, to be sure, but it belonged more on the stage than in real life. Then again, it was his duty as a noble to protect his people, the people of the Empire. His personal feelings were immaterial in the face of his noble obligation. If his work required it, then Ferdinand would avenge Remire like the best of the operatic heroes. He would not, could not rest until he had met his goal.

“Very well!” Ferdinand said. He clapped his hands together. “I will join the search for Solon.”

“For now, I would rather you get rest and focus on your studies,” Byleth said. “Once Solon is located, the Black Eagles will be deployed. I need you at your best when that happens.” 

“Then I will endeavor to be the best at training!” Ferdinand vowed. 

The thought of this goal energized him, scorching away the exhaustion that had seeped into his bones. He would train until he himself could strike down Solon. He would make the villain pay for what he did to the people of Remire. Ferdinand’s sudden energy appeared to amuse Byleth. She cocked her head to one side and lifted one corner of her mouth as she watched Ferdinand. 

“Your enthusiasm for work is unparalleled,” she said. 

Ferdinand stared. “Really? Unparalleled? Even by Edelgard?” 

That made Byleth laugh, or the closest she got to laughing, a sharp exhale through her nose. 

“Always so quick to make comparisons,” she chided gently. “But since you’ve been feeling unwell, I’ll indulge you. Yes, you even exceed Edelgard in this respect.”

In his excitement, Ferdinand forgot all about propriety. He threw his head back and whooped. 

“Professor, you do not know how much it means for me to hear that,” he gushed. “Why, I feel wholly restored by your words!”

“Compliments are a poor substitute for sleep,” Byleth said dryly over her teacup.

Ferdinand made a mental note to record this bit of feedback, so that he might remember in the years to come that even Byleth — his professor! — had noted how he excelled. Then, remembering himself, he blushed. 

“Forgive my exuberance, Professor. I only mean to say that your opinion means a great deal to me,” he said sheepishly. 

Byleth smiled and said nothing. She turned her attention to the pastry tray and carefully selected a number of petit fours for herself. Ferdinand poured them both a second cup of tea. For a time, they ate and drank in a silence punctuated by the crackle of the fireplace. Eventually, Byleth scraped her fork across an empty plate and licked at the few crumbs she’d collected before dropping the utensil. In an instant, Byleth switched from indulgent tea companion to keen-eyed professor. She leaned forward in her chair, dark eyes alight with interest.

“Ferdinand, do you like to dance?” she asked. 

“Why certainly! As a result of my noble upbringing, I have trained in dance for years,” Ferdinand said. A sudden realization made him gasp. “Are you picking a representative for the White Heron Cup?” 

“I’m in the process. I’ve been gauging interest among your classmates,” Byleth said.

“At my first such event,” Ferdinand said, “a ball held by my father, the prime minister, I stole the show. My dancing skills impressed everyone present. It was all anyone could talk about for weeks.” He clasped his hands together before him. “Do you see what I am trying to say here? Do not make me beg you… Please choose me as the representative!”

Byleth huffed out a small laugh. “Very well, you can be our representative.”

“There is no one better suited! I— wait, did you say I can be the representative?” Ferdinand said, catching himself mid-argument.

“Yes, but I’m already starting to regret it,” Byleth said. 

“Do not say that! You have absolutely made the right decision,” Ferdinand said. “You will have the chance to see the legendary footwork of House Aegir!”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Byleth said in a voice that suggested she was absolutely not looking forward to it. She rose from her seat and stretched her arms above her head, groaning as she did so. “This was great, Ferdinand. More students should invite me to tea. It’s always the other way around.”

“Ah, do you need to leave?” Ferdinand said. “I thought we might practice.”

“We’ll get to that later. I need to let the Archbishop know I’ve picked someone,” Byleth said. “Goodbye.”

With a polite nod, she left the room. Once the door snapped shut behind her, Ferdinand leapt to his feet with glee. He would be the White Heron Cup Representative! He already knew he was the best dancer at Garreg Mach, but now he could prove it. 

For much of the next week, Ferdinand told anyone who would listen about his extensive dancing experience. Caspar did not believe him, which led to the two of them having a dance competition of their own in the middle of the training grounds. Ferdinand was sure he would have won, had Felix not rudely interrupted and told them to go dance elsewhere. After that, Ferdinand relegated his dancing to the practice sessions with Byleth, although he did not stop talking loudly about every ball that he had attended in the Empire. 

“There was the celebration of the New Year in Enbarr,” Ferdinand proclaimed over a dinner of pheasant roast. “We rang in 1179 with great style. The food and drink was unbelievable!”

Dorothea was seated across from him. She rolled her eyes, never one to be impressed by the frippery of nobility. Beside her, Bernadetta shook her head. 

“I-I remember that night,” she said. “I didn’t want to go but m-my father made me.” 

“You were there?” Ferdinand said. “I do not recall meeting you at that event.”

“I spent the whole night hiding from everyone,” Bernadetta replied sourly. “It would have been better if I got to stay home. But… the food was pretty good.”

“See, even Bernadetta agrees,” Ferdinand said. He tossed his head proudly as he remembered waltzing across the ballroom. “I was a bit of a star that night. My dancing impressed everyone in attendance.”

“Bragging about your dance moves again?”

That sardonic drawl could only belong to one person. Ferdinand frowned as Hubert took a seat beside him, dropping his plate onto the table with an uncouth clatter. 

“It is not bragging,” Ferdinand said. “I was regaling everyone with tales of last year’s New Year’s Ball.”

“I was at that ball,” Hubert said as he cut into his meal. 

“I’m surprised you secured an invitation. I cannot imagine your dour countenance is well-suited to such events.” Ferdinand said, unable to help himself. 

Hubert fixed Ferdinand with a sharp look. “I was required to attend as Lady Edelgard’s retainer. I assure you, I find no joy in such vapid occasions.”

“I will be sure to let Edelgard know that you found the Imperial celebration so disappointing,” Ferdinand countered. 

“That is not what I said,” Hubert said. “In fact—”

“Ugh, please don’t start bickering again,” Dorothea groaned. “I’d rather listen to Ferdie brag about dancing.” 

“It was not bragging!” Ferdinand insisted. 

No one seemed to believe him. Even Bernadetta only gave him a half-shrug when he looked to her for confirmation. Feeling a bit cowed, Ferdinand fixed his eyes on his plate as Dorothea launched into a discussion of dates to the ball. His mood soured a bit at that, the reminder that he did not have a date, nor did he expect he would find one. He jabbed his fork sullenly into a piece of pheasant and lifted it to his lips. But a small cough from Hubert stopped him from taking a bite. 

“What now, Hubert?” Ferdinand asked, putting down the utensil with a huff. 

“You have to win the White Heron Cup,” Hubert said, as plainly as if he were asking Ferdinand to pass the salt. 

“Not that it is any of your concern, but I intend to win,” Ferdinand responded. Then, curiosity getting the better of him, “why does it matter to you?” 

Hubert tossed his head, the motion causing a lank curtain of dark hair to shield his face. “You are representing the Black Eagles, of course.” 

“Ah, worried that I will reflect poorly on Edelgard?” Ferdinand replied. “I assure you, I exceed her when it comes to dance.”

“I think we both know that isn’t true,” Hubert said. 

“Byleth certainly seems to agree with me,” Ferdinand retorted. “It was me the professor chose as representative, not Edelgard.”

“The Professor is known for her unconventional methods,” Hubert said. 

“And what about me is so unconventional?” Ferdinand asked, his ire rising. “I am classically trained, I will have you know.” 

“I saw you dancing at the New Year’s Ball,” Hubert said with a dark chuckle. “It was…ostentatious, to my taste.” 

“This only reaffirms my belief that you are not one of particularly refined tastes,” Ferdinand said, stabbing his fork in Hubert’s general direction. 

The insult had little effect on Hubert, who shrugged it off easily. He swatted away Ferdinand’s fork before continuing. 

“Regardless, your performance has left me concerned about your ability to win the Cup. I cannot have you sullying Lady Edelgard’s reputation.” 

“As I said before, I am the best there is.”

“Then prove it.” 

Hubert’s one visible eye bored into Ferdinand. But the smaller man did not look away. He glared back, hoping his gaze would communicate the depth of his determination. He had thought things were better between the two of them, after Remire, but here was Hubert, openly doubting his capabilities once more. Ferdinand had had enough of this treatment. 

“When I win,” he began, still glaring at Hubert, “you have to admit you were wrong about me.” 

At that, Hubert laughed again. It was a richer noise this time, as if Ferdinand’s honor were a genuine source of amusement for him. His mouth twisted into a wry smile. 

“If you win,” he said, “then I will correct my evaluation of you.”

“Give me your word,” Ferdinand demanded. “I will not have you changing your tune once I have swept the judges off their feet!”

“Very well,” Hubert said. “You have my word that, in the unlikely event you win the White Heron Cup, I will admit that I was wrong about your dancing abilities.” 

He held Ferdinand’s gaze a beat longer. There was a spark of something unusual in his bright green eye. A playful light danced behind his dark lashes. The corner of his lip curled upwards into the barest of smiles. The expression looked wholly out of place on Hubert, who had all the cheer of a raincloud brought to life. Something shifted uncomfortably in Ferdinand’s gut. He broke the stare with a shake of his head. He left the dining hall in a hurry, not even pausing to excuse himself from the table. 

The days leading up to the White Heron Cup were dedicated wholly to dance practice. Byleth was a fierce competitor, even when it came to dancing. She trained with Ferdinand relentlessly. They practiced everything from slow and sweeping waltz to frenzied and frenetic folk. At one point, fed up with his form, she insisted he hold a sword as he stepped to the music. Ferdinand, for all his prior training, could hardly keep up with her methods. 

At their final practice, Byleth finally allowed Ferdinand to drop the sword as he moved through the choreography. 

“Keep your arms outstretched, as though you’re dancing with a partner,” she instructed.

She stepped close to adjust Ferdinand’s left arm, turning the elbow and tweaking his wrist until she was satisfied. She tilted his chin up. 

“There, that should be your posture. Let’s run through it again,” she said. 

She hummed their competition song, a slow variation of the Garreg Mach standard. As Ferdinand danced, Byleth’s hands would dart out to fix small motions, her humming never faltering. They practiced in this manner over and over. Eventually, the Byleth’s hands slowed and Ferdinand made it through more and more of the song without a correction. He began to hum along under his breath, adding harmonies to Byleth’s tune. The final bars of the song rang out. Ferdinand took the penultimate step, then the last, before coming to a standstill. Byleth applauded and Ferdinand swept into a bow. 

“If you can do that tomorrow, you’ll win,” she said. 

“Oh, I do hope so!” Ferdinand said. “The judges will be blown away by my talent!” 

Byleth chuckled. “Alright, get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Despite his professor’s instruction, Ferdinand slept fitfully that night. He dreamt of dancing in the ballroom of Garreg Mach, spinning and whirling in the hands of a shadowy figure. He attempted as he danced to peer at his partner’s face. But no matter how hard he tried, the image never materialized in his mind.

The grand ballroom of Garreg Mach was decked out in preparation for the White Heron Cup. Scintillating crystal chandeliers made candlelight dance across the parquet floors. Heavy velvet banners, one for each of the houses, hung from the walls. At a low table along the eastern wall sat the three judges: Shamir, Alois, and Manuela. Rows of chairs filled the north end of the ballroom, occupied by the various residents of Garreg Mach. As Ferdinand and his competitors entered the ballroom, the audience burst into applause. Ferdinand searched the crowd and was relieved to see the familiar faces of the Black Eagles among them. He caught Byleth’s eye as he marched onto the stage. She nodded and the small motion gave Ferdinand a rush of confidence. 

Alois was the emcee of the event, a task he took on with the usual enthusiasm. His booming voice was clearly heard over the chatter of the audience. 

“Dear friends, I am excited to welcome you to the annual White Heron Cup,” he announced, quelling the crowd in an instant. “Allow me to first introduce the judges. We have myself, your humble servant, Alois Rangled. And also, the acclaimed former songstress of the Mittelfrank Opera Company, Manuela Casagranda. Finally, we are joined by the glamorous assassin who does all her dancing in the dead of night, Shamir Nevrand!”

The audience clapped politely as the judges rose from their seats and waved. 

“The three of us swear on our honor to judge the following proceedings with utmost impartiality and fairness,” Alois continued. “And with that, will the representatives of each house please make their way to the stage!”

He swept an arm out as the three students marched onto the stage, silent and nervous, to stand beside him.

“From the Black Eagle House, we have Ferdinand von Aegir!” Alois said. 

At the sound of his name, Ferdinand bowed deeply. He heard Caspar whoop loudly as he did so and suppressed a small smile. 

“Representing the Blue Lion House is Mercedes von Martritz,” Alois said. 

Ferdinand risked a glance to his right to catch sight of Mercedes. He had never interacted with the tall sorceress, though he had heard of her powerful Crest of Lamine and the healing capabilities that came with it. She cut a graceful figure in her evening wear uniform. The black cape hung delicately from her slight shoulders. The long dark skirt draped well past her knees, making her appear charmingly demure. She would be a challenging opponent to out-dance. 

“And last but certainly not least, from the Golden Deer House is Ignatz Victor!”

If Ferdinand had not been on stage, he would have surely done a double-take. He knew Ignatz, the tremulous tow-headed archer. Ignatz looked terrified to be on stage. He was an uncommon choice, Ferdinand thought.

“Without further ado, let’s get this competition started,” Alois said. 

He waved a hand at the band, who quickly took up their instruments. The first notes of the Garreg Mach standard rang out. Ferdinand took a deep breath and began to dance. The song made him forget about his opponents. He was alone on the dance floor, his singular focus on the choreography he had practiced so relentlessly. He did a neat two-step, then an elegant spin, before bending low into a dip. He counted out the beats under his breath, though he never let his dazzling smile waver. The song entered its final bars and Ferdinand felt his feet slow. He came to a stop and held his final pose, arms outstretched as if he were leading a partner.

The thunderous applause knocked Ferdinand out of his dancing stupor and he broke into a grin. He knew he had danced well, perhaps the best he ever had. Now he needed to know if it was enough. He finally dropped his arms and turned to the judges, chest heaving from the exertion of the dance. 

“That’s all folks!” Alois announced. “You were all incredible. Now let’s hear from our judges.”

Manuela stood first. “Oh my, let me see. I suppose I have no choice but to vote for The Black Eagle House. Your performance was…exhilarating.”

The Black Eagles began to clap, but were swiftly hushed by Alois.

“I vote for,” Shamir said, “the Blue Lion House. The way you carried yourself was striking.” 

The Blue Lions cheered as Mercedes turned a pretty shade of pink. Ferdinand noticed Sylvain and Felix in the crowd applauding their former housemate. Nervousness simmered low in his stomach. He was one vote away from being crowned the winner.

“Great feedback from both of you,” Alois said. “Factoring in my opinion, we have a winner!” He paused for effect and a hush fell over the ballroom. “The winner of this year’s White Heron Cup is… The Black Eagle House!”

The swell of applause stunned Ferdinand into silence. It was all he could do to smile and stand upright as Alois named him, Ferdinand von Aegir, as a Dancer. He felt faint, a minute tremble in his knees that threatened to give way. He had done it. He had won. He was the very best, and here it was, laid bare for everyone to know. 

Ferdinand laughed with joy, unable to contain himself. “As expected of someone as accomplished as myself.”

Alois clapped him on the back, knocking the air from Ferdinand’s lungs. He was half-gasping as Byleth rose to the stage and pressed a Dancer uniform into his hands. 

“Good job,” Byleth murmured as she stepped away. 

It was unvarnished praise, but from Byleth, it meant the world. Ferdinand felt his knees shake again, but he did not waver as he dipped into a final bow. He left the stage at Byleth’s side. Much to his relief, Byleth offered him her elbow, which he took with a grateful smile. 

“I owe some credit of my success to you, Professor,” he said. “Thank you.”

Byleth inclined her head slightly in response, but they were mobbed by a crowd of well-wishers before she could add anything further.

“You won! You won!” Caspar shouted in Ferdinand’s ear as he wrapped the taller man in a hug.

“Impressive. A victory is a victory,” said Edelgard from the back of the group. 

“Now everyone’s going to expect even more of you, you know,” Linhardt said. 

“I have to say, Ferdie, you did better than I thought,” Dorothea added, appearing at Linhardt’s elbow. 

“I’m glad to hear my performance was beyond your imagination!” Ferdinand replied. 

His heart swelled as his classmates crowded around him. This was all that he strove for, was it not? To be universally acclaimed by his peers, to be held in high regard by his professor, that was all he wished. And he had achieved it! Ferdinand’s face hurt from grinning, but he did not mind in the least. He felt the pinpricks of tears in his eyes and fought to hold them back. He was a victor now!

“You must be coming to the classroom once you are done here,” Petra said to him. “We are celebrating!”

“Y-yeah, we got a cake,” Bernadetta added. “Let’s forget about dancing and get to eating.”

“Go and have fun,” Byleth said. “You all have earned a celebration.”

The Black Eagles made quick work of rearranging their classroom into a space fit for a party. The desks and chairs were pushed to to the edges of the room. Bernadetta sourced streamers that she hung on the walls. The Professor’ desk held a simple white cake with the words “Congrats, Ferdinand von Aegir” written in neat orange frosting. A few bottles of wine and empty glasses surrounded it. Dorothea perched on a chair in the corner, doing some scales in preparation for providing the musical accompaniment for the evening. 

Now that the adrenaline of the competition was gone, Ferdinand could feel the fatigue in his body. His calves and shoulders ached from dance, both the performance and the endless nights of practice. Nevertheless, he flitted about the room, basking in the glow of his classmates’ attention. Dorothea passed him a glass of wine. He sipped at it and let the warm rush of alcohol dull the pain in his muscles. 

“Will you be a dancer now?” Bernadetta asked.

She appeared at Ferdinand’s side suddenly. Her pale eyes darted around the classroom as she spoke, on the lookout for some unknown threat. She held a rather large piece of cake and nibbled on it on occasion, once she was satisfied that there was no imminent danger. 

“No, I fear I would be lost on the battlefield without my steed,” Ferdinand replied. “But the dancing has improved my swordsmanship quite a bit.”

“Is that so?” Felix asked. He had been sullenly nursing a drink at the margins of the classroom, but at the mention of swords, he strode over to Ferdinand. “Explain yourself.”

“Dance teaches you to be light on your feet, to be both agile and precise,” Ferdinand said. “The skills carry over to the sword quite naturally. As someone quite adept at both, I would be happy to provide a demonstration.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” Felix said. “We can meet in the training grounds some-”

“Fe, is training all you think about?” Sylvain interrupted. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Ferdinand and grinned. “Hey, there’s the champion! Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” Ferdinand said, shaking Sylvain’s hand. “I am overjoyed that the judges recognized my natural talent!” 

“I bet you’re really looking forward to the ball now,” Sylvain said. 

“What do you mean?” Ferdinand asked. “Is that some sort of euphemism?” 

“I’d believe it,” Felix muttered. 

“You guys always expect the worst from me,” Sylvain groaned. He shook his head. “I only mean, people will be lining up to dance with you now. I imagine you caught a lot of attention with that performance.”

Ferdinand blushed but did not deny the suggestion. The thought had crossed his mind as well. His stock had certainly risen as a result of this latest achievement. Certainly there were plenty of people who would like to accompany the best dancer in Garreg Mach to the ball. He simply needed to pick someone to ask. 

“I do not disagree,” Ferdinand said. “But I am truly unsure who I might ask, especially on such short notice.” 

“Ooh, this sounds like a conversation I want to be a part of,” Dorothea cooed. She slipped between Felix and Ferdinand, wrapping her arms around both of their elbows, much to Felix’s annoyance. “Are you trying to find a date?”

“Leave me out of this,” Felix growled as he disentangled himself from Dorothea’s grasp. “I’ve got better things to think about.”

“You’re only saying that because you’ve got a date,” Dorothea said. 

“That’s true, the catch of Garreg Mach,” Sylvain drawled. 

He stretched, using the opportunity to throw an arm around Felix and pull him close. Felix made a disgruntled face, but made no move to push Sylvain away. Ferdinand shook his head. 

“There you have it, Dorothea,” he said. “The catch of Garreg Mach is taken, so there is no date available fit for Ferdinand von Aegir!” 

“What about Bernie? You don’t have a date either, right?” Dorothea asked. 

Bernadetta blanched. “N-no, but you wouldn’t catch me dancing at a ball any sooner than you’d catch a fish swimming through the sky!” 

“Well, that makes you a less than ideal candidate,” Dorothea said. “What about Lorenz? Aren’t the two of you close?” 

“Lorenz is a regular tea companion of mine, yes,” Ferdinand said, “but I cannot say I am interested in pursuing him romantically.” 

“You’re surprising me, Ferdie. I would have thought you liked the noble, haughty type,” Dorothea said. 

“Hey, what are you implying?” Sylvain asked. 

Dorothea tossed her hair over her shoulder and pretended not to hear him. She rounded on Ferdinand, her green eyes hawkish and curious. 

“What’s your type, then?” she demanded. 

The question made Ferdinand blush. He was unaccustomed to discussing his romantic interests so plainly, something that Dorothea practiced with alarming regularity. He had never had the kind of friendship where such private matters might be exchanged. Such intimate details were reserved to the pages of his diaries and nowhere else. Anything else would be highly improper. For this reason Ferdinand found himself shrinking back from Sylvain and Dorothea. He tapped his nails against his glass with a sudden nervousness.

“Oh, who can say such a thing with certainty?” he said with a chuckle. 

“It’s not a test, Ferdie, no need to be so nervous,” Dorothea said playfully. 

“Maybe the question’s too abstract,” Sylvain offered. “How about this? Out of all the people at Garreg Mach, who’d you like to end up in the Goddess Tower with?” 

“Well, I…” Ferdinand stalled. He cast his eyes about the room, looking for an out, when he caught sight of a familiar shadow. “Hubert! I believe you owe me something.”

He looked apologetically at Dorothea and Sylvain. “I am sorry to cut this short, but I have an urgent matter to discuss with Hubert. It is a matter of just comeuppance!”

He excused himself and rushed up to stand beside Hubert, who was lurking by the cake and casting dark looks across the room. 

“Hubert, did you hear me?” Ferdinand asked. 

In response, Hubert lifted a hand, a tacit demand for silence. He was glaring towards the fireplace. Edelgard and Byleth had curled up in front of the fire, their legs crossed beneath them, their knees touching. They were deep in conversation. The fire caught Byleth’s face at just the right angle, setting ablaze her expression of rapt attention. Watching her, Ferdinand’s heart caught in his throat. She looked once again like both predator and prey, hungry and skittish and curious. A strange thought occurred to Ferdinand, perhaps due to all of Dorothea’s talk of romance. But once the seed of the idea had settled in his mind, it did not seem so strange at all. In fact, it seemed rather obvious.

“Do you think that Edelgard and the Professor—”

“Don’t,” Hubert hissed. “Whatever you are about to suggest, don’t.”

“I simply mean—” Ferdinand said. 

“Let’s not,” Hubert said in a voice that made it clear he would not tolerate any further objection. 

He tore his gaze away from Edelgard with a sharp sigh. His acid-green eye snapped to Ferdinand, narrowing to evaluate him. 

“What do you want?” Hubert demanded. 

So they were not going to discuss the obvious, Ferdinand thought. He decided to shelve the matter for the time being. It would be an interesting topic to delve into on another day. For now, he had an admission to hear.

“Have you forgotten your agreement with me?” Ferdinand asked. “I won the White Heron Cup.” 

“So you did,” Hubert said. He folded his arms. “What does that have to do with me?” 

Ferdinand gaped. “Hubert, I know you to be a loathsome individual, but I never thought you so devoid of character that you would go back on your word.” 

“My, aren’t you emotional? I didn’t know my opinion meant so much to you,” Hubert said. 

“That is hardly the case!” Ferdinand replied. “It is a matter of principle. You gave me your word.”

“And you believed that?” Hubert teased with a cruel laugh. “It was foolish of you to trust so easily,” Hubert said. 

That struck a nerve. Ferdinand took a step back, his face hot with anger. Had Hubert not begged for Ferdinand’s trust just weeks before? Ferdinand had taken that moment as a sign that their relationship would improve. He had even been the tiniest bit excited for this moment, the admission that perhaps Ferdinand was not as abhorrent as Hubert had first thought. But instead, Hubert was back to his old ways, throwing Ferdinand’s cautious optimism back in his face.

“It’s foolish of me to trust?” Ferdinand said heatedly. “This, after Remire?”

“I only mean that it is foolish to put so much stock in someone’s word,” Hubert said. 

He seemed taken aback at Ferdinand’s reaction, shrinking back in the face of this sudden anger. He raised his palms, perhaps a gesture of goodwill, but it only served to irritate Ferdinand further. 

“I put stock in your word,” Ferdinand said, “because you asked me to trust you. For you to throw that in my face is the height of incivility! To think, I had started to consider you a useful ally.”

“No need for hysterics,” Hubert snapped. “I was merely making a point about—”

“About what you perceive to be a shortcoming of mine,” Ferdinand said. “There is no need to explain. I have had enough of you.” 

He spun on his heel and stalked off, scooping another glass of wine off the table as he went. He tried to forget the encounter, embroiling himself in an elaborate drinking game that Caspar roped several of the Black Eagles into. He paid careful attention to the complicated rules and did his best not to notice when Hubert slipped out of the classroom and disappeared. 

In the days leading up to the ball, Ferdinand steadfastly avoided Hubert. He knew better than to expect an apology. The mage took far too much pleasure in wanton cruelty for such a thing. And that meant if they were to speak, it would likely devolve into argument once again, leaving Ferdinand agitated and worse off. It was better, Ferdinand decided, that they not interact at all. Whatever trust they shared on the battlefield clearly did not mean much in the civilian world. 

But even the argument could not dampen Ferdinand’s spirits. The day of the ball, he was ebullient as he prepared for the event. He took a luxuriously lengthy bath, soaking in warm water scented with rose oil for far longer than necessary and singing as much of “Madame Butterfly” as he could remember. He combed his hair and trimmed his eyebrows, fastidiously seeking out and cutting down any errant hairs to size. Finally, he daubed a red tint onto his lips. Once he was satisfied with his preparations, he put on his Dancer uniform. 

The white tunic was snug across Ferdinand’s chest. He tossed the crimson sash over his left shoulder, fastening it in place with the golden braces that decorated the uniform. The sash draped down to his waist, where it was held in place with a jangling golden belt, before flaring out to hang around his legs. A white ruffle of fabric hung at his right hip, twitching with every minute motion he made to accentuate his movements. To complete the outfit, he slipped gold bracelets onto his forearms. He admired the overall effect in the mirror, the red and white of the uniform competing charmingly with his neatly coiffed shock of orange hair. Please with his appearance, Ferdinand descended from his dormitory to the Garreg Mach ballroom.

The event was well underway by the time he arrived. People were clumped in groups talking or scattered across the dance floor. The band played a familiar song, slow and sweet. The room was suffused with a golden light. It was, Ferdinand realized, magic, not fire, that danced in the chandeliers, scattering a warm glow.

Unable to find any familiar faces in the crowd, Ferdinand faltered for a moment. He stood warily at the margins of the dance floor. But before long, someone called out his name. He turned and Sylvain was bowing before him, hand extended. 

“You are a vision tonight, Ferdinand,” Sylvain said. “May I have this dance?”

Ferdinand agreed readily, allowing Sylvain to lead him onto the dance floor. He placed a hand on Sylvain’s shoulder and took Sylvain’s hand in the other. They began to sway in lazy circles around the dance floor. The fabric of the dancer uniform swished gently against Ferdinand’s legs as he moved. Ferdinand leaned against Sylvain, resting his head against the taller man’s chest. He could feel the steady rhythm of Sylvain’s heartbeat beneath his ear. 

“This is quite lovely,” Ferdinand said, “but should you not be dancing with Felix?”

“I’m giving him a break before I drag him out for another dance,” Sylvain answered with a chuckle. “I think he’s had his fill for now.”

That did not surprise Ferdinand in the least. If anything, he had been surprised that Sylvain had convinced Felix to attend in the first place. But it was clear to anyone who would look that the swordsman had a soft spot for Sylvain. Behavior he would not tolerate from others was excusable, even amusing, when Sylvain did it. It was rather sweet. Ferdinand told Sylvain this, who laughed. 

“Don’t let Felix hear you calling him sweet. I think he’d throw a fit,” Sylvain said. “But enough about me. Who do you want to dance with tonight?” 

“The Professor, of course,” Ferdinand answered immediately. “After that, perhaps Manuela.”

“Good luck with that,” Sylvain said. “They’ve both been in high demand all evening.”

“Yes, they are quite popular,” Ferdinand said with a frown. He craned his neck to catch sight of Byleth waltzing with Claude, the latter wearing a cloying grin. “But I am sure neither will refuse a dance with the White Heron Cup Champion.”

“Always so sure of yourself,” Sylvain said, swinging Ferdinand in a wide circle around him. “There are plenty of folks here I wouldn’t mind a dance with, but I think Felix will be pissed if I’m gone too long.”

“You do not sound too disheartened by that,” Ferdinand said. “You have changed. The Sylvain I knew would loathe being tied to one person all evening.”

“I’m hardly tied down. I’m dancing with you, aren’t I?” Sylvain said. “But to be honest, I don’t find myself that interested in other people any more. It’s mostly a joke, more than anything.”

“It would seem Felix has made an honorable man out of you,” Ferdinand replied with a smile. 

Sylvain nodded slowly, as though he were realizing for the first time himself. “I guess he has. He gets me, you know?” 

“To be frank, I do not,” Ferdinand said. A cold pang of sadness shot through his chest as he said it. “I have never felt so known. My admirers always keep at a distance, it would seem.”

“It’ll happen eventually,” Sylvain assured him. “You’re a total catch! It’s just a matter of catching the right guy’s attention. And you’ll know, you know, when it’s the right guy.”  
“You sound certain,” Ferdinand said. “Are you speaking from experience?”

“I think so.” Sylvain shrugged. “Before, I always had an exit strategy in my head. I needed to know I could cut and run if I wanted. I don’t have one now. But for once in my life, that doesn’t scare me. That has to be a sign, right?”

It was as bold a declaration of love as Ferdinand had ever heard. He pressed his cheek to Sylvain’s chest, feeling the telltale stutter of his heartbeat as he did. He felt suddenly envious of Felix, not for winning Sylvain’s affections, but for inspiring such an emotion in anyone at all. What did it mean to be the object of someone’s love? Felix knew that someone’s heart skipped a beat for him. Wherever he went, he carried with him the certainty of being loved. He had someone to rely on, a ballast in all things as he went through his life. What a lucky man. 

“It definitely is a sign and a good one at that,” Ferdinand said.

They danced without speaking for the final notes of the song. Sylvain spun Ferdinand and the ballroom became a golden blur. Ferdinand twirled once and then again, enjoying the sound of his uniform swishing around him. Then the last notes of the violin died out and his stopped. His head spun for a moment, but Sylvain’s hands were on his shoulders to steady him.

“That was quite a finish,” he said grinning. “Thanks for the dance, Ferdie.”

“It was my pleasure,” Ferdinand replied, a little bit breathless.

Sylvain retreated into the crowd and Ferdinand was alone on the dance floor once more. He looked around uncertainly, wondering where he should go next. It would be so nice, he thought, to have someone to attend these events with. Someone he could always gravitate towards without feeling out of place. Someone steadfast and reliable, who would be there when needed. But no such person appeared.

He looked around for Byleth, wondering if he could finally have a turn about the room with his professor. But she was notably absent. He scanned the crowd for a glimpse of her dark hair but saw nothing. Perhaps then, Manuela? But the songstress was otherwise occupied. Ferdinand caught sight of her tittering drunkenly on the arm of a battalion captain. It seemed everyone had a companion for the dance but him. 

Ferdinand decided to make a round at one of the many snack tables that lined the ballroom instead. They appeared to be arranged by theme, each carrying variations on the same pastry. One table was piled high with different cakes, the other a smorgasbord of custards, both competing with a third dedicated solely to finger sandwiches. Ferdinand dallied at a table of canapés, carefully selecting one to pop into his mouth. It was delicious, the perfect blend of salty cured meat and soft, neutral cheese. He was about to pick another when a shadow crossed into his field of vision.

“A moment of your time?” Hubert asked.

He appeared beside Ferdinand like a specter. He managed to look ghoulish despite the elegant evening wear uniform, his lank hair obscuring half his face as usual. But he wore cautious expression, one that reminded Ferdinand of soothing a spooked horse. 

“I am afraid I am occupied at the moment,” Ferdinand replied, already irritated. 

He did not appreciate being handled with kid gloves, not when Hubert had shown such fervent disregard for his feelings in the recent past. He tossed his head and plucked another canapé from the table, biting into it with more care and attention than it really warranted. Hubert did not seem to understand the dismissal. He shuffled a bit closer to Ferdinand, his back turned to the dance floor. 

“I need to speak with you,” he insisted. “I would prefer to go outside, but if you insist on the matter, we can do it here.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Ferdinand said after he swallowed his bite. “Unless the Professor orders us to work together, there is no need for us to converse.”

With a sigh, Hubert pinched the bridge of his nose. “I apologize for my earlier behavior, Ferdinand. It was…uncalled for.”

The genuine contrition in Hubert’s expression gave Ferdinand pause. Only Hubert would manage to look both apologetic and irritated at the same time. His green eye darted across Ferdinand’s face, searching for something. He twisted his hands nervously before him. It would ruin the gloves, which were a rather lovely silk cream. Ferdinand put out a hand to still Hubert’s.

“And?” Ferdinand prompted.

“I will make good on my word,” Hubert said, folding his arms behind his back. He straightened and cleared his throat. “Clearly, given your recent success, my previous evaluation of your dancing abilities was incorrect.”

“Incorrect how?”

“You insist on dragging this out?” 

“I insist on hearing all your thoughts on the matter.”

“You are a better dancer than I believed you to be,” Hubert said finally with a roll of his eyes. “You are, I dare say, a talented dancer.”

Ferdinand barked out a laugh. “Was that so difficult to admit?” 

“Excruciating,” Hubert replied, but there was no heat in his words. “Will you stop sulking now?”

“A noble of House Aegir does not sulk,” Ferdinand said, crossing his arms. “I would never stoop to such juvenile behavior. True nobility—”

“Spare me,” Hubert interrupted. “I would have thought you more interested in dancing than lecturing.”

Ferdinand rolled his eyes. Leave it to Hubert to behave so rudely during an apology. But he let the topic drop. He had too much on his mind this evening to speak eloquently on nobility anyways. He surveyed the dance floor with a pout. 

“I would love to dance,” Ferdinand said. “In fact, I have been hoping to ask the Professor. But she seems to have disappeared completely.”

That made Hubert whip around to scan the crowd. He scowled as he did, realizing that in fact, Byleth was nowhere to be seen. He muttered something under his breath. 

“Speaking of dancing, where is Edelgard?” Ferdinand added. “I am sure she looks adorable in her evening wear, but I believe I will still outshine her in this! I will need her present to compare.”

“Lady Edelgard has been with me all evening,” Hubert said, his eyes never leaving the crowd. “Although…”

Ferdinand looked around and noticed that Edelgard, too, was gone. The only flash of white hair in the crowd was Lysithea, who swung wildly from Raphael’s arms, laughing like a madwoman. Beside him, Hubert became agitated, twisting his hands in his gloves once more. 

“I cannot seem to find Lady Edelgard,” he said. “Do you see her?”

“I do not. Curious that both she and the Professor should vanish,” Ferdinand wondered aloud.

The gravity of what he said hit both Hubert and Ferdinand at the same time. They stared at each other, wide-eyed with the realization. 

“Could they be—?” Ferdinand began.

“The Goddess Tower,” Hubert hissed. He took a step towards the entrance, then another. “I need to go.”

“Hold on a moment!” Ferdinand said, catching Hubert by the wrist. “Do you intend to interrupt whatever you find there? I doubt Edelgard will want you barging into her…dalliance.”

“Do. Not. Call it that,” Hubert said through gritted teeth, wrenching his arm from Ferdinand’s grasp. “You don’t understand. I need to be there.”

“If you are going, I insist on accompanying you,” Ferdinand said. “If only to prevent you from destroying a private moment.” 

“Absolutely not,” Hubert said, backpedaling towards the door. 

Ferdinand followed his resolutely, ignoring his protestations. 

“I will come with you or I will announce to the entire ball where Edelgard is,” he said.

That brought Hubert to a stop. His one visible eye glared daggers at Ferdinand. He looked briefly as though he might strike Ferdinand, annoyance and urgency and anger all flashing across his face. But he huffed angrily and turned on his heel .

“Come on, then,” he tossed over his shoulder. “We need to hurry.”

The absurdity of the situation was not lost on Ferdinand. Here he was, the night of the ball, sneaking off to the Goddess Tower with Hubert of all people. It was, of course, purely curiosity and the conviction that Hubert might do something drastic that drove Ferdinand to such an extreme. They scurried across the monastery ground to the Goddess Tower, noting with some relief that few others had strayed away from the ball. When they arrived at the base of the tower, Hubert tapped Ferdinand on the shoulder and pressed a finger to his lips, pantomiming silence. Ferdinand rolled his eyes. 

“You are not the only one who can be sneaky,” he whispered at Hubert, who simply pressed the finger more tightly against his lips. “Are you really going to spy on Edelgard? That is dastardly, even for you.”

“If you find it so distasteful, then leave,” Hubert whispered back.

Neither of them were remotely surprised when Ferdinand remained rooted on the spot. He could not help it. As much as he might defend Edelgard’s right to privacy to Hubert, he was curious about what they might find in the Goddess Tower. The thought of stumbling upon some clandestine affair sounded a great deal more exciting than milling about in the ballroom, wishing for a dance. Ferdinand gestured to the stairwell and the two of them ascended with bated breath. 

They climbed in near darkness, only a few watery shafts of moonlight through the windows guiding their way. As they neared the top, Ferdinand could hear low voices, though he could not make out what they said. They crept closer to the mouth of the stairwell, being sure to stick to the dark shadows. Stretching his neck out as far as he could dare, Ferdinand could just see the landing at the top of the Goddess Tower. 

The two women stood shoulder to shoulder facing the window, looking out over the grounds of Garreg Mach. From his position crouched in the shadows of the stairwell, Ferdinand could not see either of their faces. But their voices were easy to hear in the hush of the Goddess Tower.

“I am glad to see you here, Professor,” Edelgard said. “Are you waiting for someone?”

“For you, actually,” Byleth replied. 

“For me?” Edelgard sounded at once excited and embarrassed. Ferdinand could imagine the dusting of pink that likely covered her cheeks. “Well, you should have summoned me earlier. Regardless, here I am.”

“I thought about asking you to come with me,” Byleth admitted after a pause. “But I could not think of the words.”

“You did not need some elaborate speech to summon me,” Edelgard said. “If you had only asked, I would be here in an instant.”

“Is it so easy to command the Imperial Princess?” Byleth asked. “I would have thought she answered to no one.” 

“Huh, aren’t you arrogant!” Edelgard said with a laugh. She placed her hand on Byleth’s shoulder. “I know I will be the Emperor one day, and the Emperor is commanded by no one. And yet, I cannot help but feel at home under your command. On the battlefield, I know peace, because my axe is guided by your hand.”

“I don’t know what I’ve done to earn such faith,” Byleth said, “but I’m grateful for it.”

“Do you remember the first thing I said to you?” Edelgard asked. 

Byleth huffed out a laugh. “You said I had a strange aura about me.”

“I meant that. It was the first thing I noticed about you,” Edelgard murmured. She turned slightly to face Byleth, her hand still anchored on her shoulder. “You have such an alluring energy. I could not help but feel drawn to you. Even now, after knowing you for months, I feel it.”

“You feel drawn to me?” Byleth asked. 

“I would have thought it obvious,” Edelgard said with an embarrassed laugh. 

She let her hand slip down Byleth’s arm before tangling their fingers together. She laughed again, the same nervous titter, as though she could not quite believe her luck. Byleth smiled her faint ghost of a smile. 

“You’re always observing everyone so impassively,” Edelgard continued more seriously. “Your expression could be carved of stone. But sometimes, you gift me with a rare smile. I treasure them.”

“I didn’t use to smile so much,” Byleth said. 

She took Edelgard’s free hand in her own, running her thumb over Edelgard’s knuckles. She stared down at their fingers as though she did not recognize them as her own. 

“I find myself doing a lot of things lately that I never did before,” Byleth continued. 

Her thumbs swept back and forth across Edelgard’s knuckles, mapping out an anxious rhythm against her hands. Edelgard kept her eyes trained on Byleth’s face, her lavender eyes unwavering.

“Do you mean to say you don’t visit the Goddess Tower with all your students?” Edelgard said with a breathless laugh. 

“I do not,” Byleth replied steadfastly. “Only you, Edelgard.”

At the sound of her name, Edelgard pitched forward and kissed Byleth. She clung to Byleth by the shoulders as though she might collapse otherwise. Byleth stood stock-still for a moment before melting into the kiss with a sigh. She threaded her fingers into Edelgard’s hair, tangling her hands with the long white strands. Edelgard opened her mouth to deepen the kiss. 

Ferdinand ducked into the stairwell, yanking Hubert back with him. 

“We need to leave,” he whispered. 

“What? No, I need to—”

“This is exceedingly private!”

“But I—”

“No, Hubert,” Ferdinand whispered firmly. “We must leave.”

“...Fine,” Hubert said. “Hang on.”

Before Ferdinand could ask what he meant, Hubert wrapped an arm around his waist. He traced a sigil onto his thigh. The ground was wrenched away beneath their feet. Ferdinand clutched at Hubert desperately, fingers scrambling for purchase against his uniform jacket. The air became thin and Ferdinand gasped for his breath. Then, with a thud, his feet his the ground. Ferdinand stumbled forward, nearly pitching face-first into the dirt.. 

The air was warm, unusually so for the season. As Ferdinand regained his bearings, he realized they were in the greenhouse. A wave of nausea rolled over him. He doubled over and dry heaved into some shrubbery. 

“I think,” he gasped out between retches, “I am going to be ill.”

Hubert scoffed. “It’s just warp sickness. It’ll pass. Try not to ruin the rosebushes.”

Abandoning all sense of propriety, Ferdinand crouched on the floor of the greenhouse. It was safer, he decided, to be closer to the ground in his current state. 

“It is not pleasant,” he muttered. He screwed his eyes shut and found that it abated the urge to vomit somewhat. “How are… Why are you unaffected?”

“You’ve never warped before, I assume,” Hubert said. “It’s not as bad after the first time.”

The roiling nausea receded a bit and Ferdinand dared to crack open one eye. His stomach still felt like it had been violently shaken, but it was a manageable feeling. As he glared at Hubert, a thought occurred to him.

“How did you… do that without a tome?” Ferdinand asked.

That made Hubert chuckle humorlessly. 

“Any spell can be cast without a tome,” he said, “if you’re a good enough mage.”

Eventually, the last vestiges of discomfort left Feridnand’s body. He cautiously rose to his feet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He had gotten dirt on his Dancer uniform, he realized. He dusted himself off to little effect. Without the haze of nausea to dull his mind, the memory of what he had seen in the Goddess Tower came rushing back. The image of Byleth and Edelgard, silhouetted against the moonlit window, flashed in his mind. 

“The Professor and Edelgard are quite fond of one another,” Ferdinand said, broaching the subject as cautiously as he could bear.

“So it would seem,” Hubert said grimly. “This is troubling, to say the least.”

“Of course. People in the Empire might object to the Imperial Princess taking up with a commoner,” Ferdinand said, nodding. “Although, the Professor can hardly be considered a commoner, with her Crest and the Sword of the Creator.”

“She is a distraction, first and foremost,” Hubert said. “A hurdle on Lady Edelgard’s path to greatness.”

“Are we discussing the same person? The Professor has only uplifted Edelgard — in fact, all of us — to ever greater heights,” Ferdinand said. “To be so dismissive of her is shortsighted. She could be a great ally to Edelgard, to the Empire.”

“That was before they… before all of that,” Hubert said, waving a hand in the direction of the Goddess Tower. “Love is far too volatile to predicate an alliance upon.”

“They were always close,” Ferdinand insisted. “I imagine this has only strengthened the bond between them.”

“For now,” Hubert said. “But love makes weaklings of us all. I am loathe to admit it, but not even someone as exceptional as Lady Edelgard can escape that.”

“Well, you will have to suffer in silence. Edelgard has made her choice,” Ferdinand said. 

“I could always interfere,” Hubert said darkly.

Ferdinand made an affronted noise. “I cannot believe you would consider such a thing! I thought you were her loyal aide.” 

“Unwaveringly,” Hubert replied. “I am wholly dedicated to her. That is why I will do whatever is necessary to help her achieve her goals. As such, it is my duty to guide her when she is making the wrong choices.”

“This is a perversion of duty,” Ferdinand argued. “You are not meant to influence her choices from the shadows.”

“It serves her best interests and that is all that matters to me,” came Hubert’s retort.

“If you interfere in whatever she has with the Professor, there will be grave consequences,” Ferdinand said warningly. “I have seen for myself the depth of their affections. If you ruin that, Edelgard will never forgive you.”

The threat gave Hubert pause. He opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. He looked away from Ferdinand.

“What am I to do then?” he asked in a small voice. 

“You may disagree with this choice, but you must accept it,” Ferdinand said. “And continue to advise and support Edelgard as you always have.” 

“You make it sound simple,” Hubert said. “When it is anything but.”

“Such is the life of an Imperial advisor,” Ferdinand said. “It is a noble path, not an easy one.”

They stood for a while longer in the greenhouse, mulling over what they had seen. In the silence, Ferdinand could hear the music from the ballroom, the faintest notes floating across the empty grounds. The ball was still going on, he realized dimly. He never did get his dance with Byelth. 

Ferdinand did not have long to mull over what he had seen in the Goddess Tower. The day after the ball, the Black Eagles were called to a mission within the monastery itself. Demonic beasts with shining stones embedded in their foreheads swarmed over the chapel grounds. They cornered a few soldiers, overwhelming the small guard that patrolled the area. The sheer number of Demonic Beasts was shocking. It was unusual enough to see one in the wild; an entire pack at once was unprecedented. 

But the months under Byleth’s tutelage had honed the Black Eagles. They tore through the Demonic Beasts, crushing them under monster-breaking axes and skewering them with blessed lances. Jeralt Eisner, the Bladebreaker himself, rode among them, his lance a force unto itself. He barked out orders from atop his steed and charged ahead, cutting a path to the stranded soldiers. Together they cut down the Demonic Beasts in a matter of minutes. But as each Beast fell, its carcass blinked out of existence. In its place lay a soldier’s corpse. 

“How strange,” Ferdinand said to Hubert after the final beast had been felled. He stooped next to one of the bodies. “This one is holding some small gemstone. But I do not recognize it.”

“Don’t touch it,” Hubert commanded, smacking away Ferdinand’s outstretched hand. “You have no idea what it could do to you.” 

“You have a point,” Ferdinand said. He cocked his head to one side and peered at the corpse. “Does this mean… Are the Demonic Beasts people?” 

“Clearly not,” Hubert said. 

“You willfully misunderstand me,” Ferdinand said. “Are they humans who have somehow been corrupted? I do not—”

Byleth’s battle cry shattered the hush that had settled over the chapel grounds. Ferdinand snatched up his lance, thinking that another Demonic Beast had appeared. He rushed to the source of the noise with Hubert at his heels, the crackling of miasma filling the air. But as Byleth came into view, his heart leapt to his throat.

Monica held a dagger with a stark black blade. The length of the metal shone with blood. Before her, Jeralt fell heavily to his knees. He clutched at the gaping wound in his chest. Blood spurted out over his fingers and stained the ground around him black. Ferdinand watched in horror as he struggled to stay upright before succumbing to the weight of his mortal wound. He tipped back into the dirt, his open eyes staring blankly up at the sky. 

If Ferdinand had not seen it with his own eyes, he would not have believed it. Jeralt Eisner was the stuff of legends, an infallible hero who laid waste to his enemies with a single sweep of his blade. The tales of his feats of strength were repeated by everyone at the Officer’s Academy. He was the epitome of a knight. And yet he had fallen, stabbed in the back in the midst of his allies. If these people could defeat the Bladebreaker, they could surely dispose of Ferdinand with ease. Ferdinand bit back a shiver. Just who were these people?

Byleth had tried to stop the attack. The Sword of the Creator was extended in her grasp. But its deadly bite had been parried away by a blast of black magic. A towering pale figure stood between Monica and Byleth, his hands radiating with dark power. 

“You must survive,” the figure intoned. “Merely because there is a role that I require you to fulfill.”

In a flash of red light, Monica and the figure disappeared. 

Byleth scrambled over to Jeralt, pulling him onto her lap. Ferdinand watched as his professor doubled over in grief, a few errant tears streaking down her face. Jeralt shakily raised a hand to carress Byleth’s cheek. It trembled against her face before dropping to the ground with a heavy thud.

Above them, the skies opened up. Rain began to beat down against the ground. The winds picked up around them, whistling at they whipped around the buildings. But Ferdinand did not notice as the icy downpour seeped into his bones. He watched, unmoving, as Byleth clung to her father’s corpse, her face a wretched mask of grief.


	12. Guardian Moon

The death of Jeralt Eisner plunged the monastery into a period of mourning. Classes were cancelled, first for the day, then indefinitely. Students congregated in the cathedral instead to hold candlelight vigils and sing hymns to mark the loss. The Knights of Seiros donned black armbands and left to search for the killers, desperate to avenge their captain. Their absence made the loss of Jeralt all the more palpable. Without the Knights, their hall lay fallow, a gaping hole in the side of the monastery.

Even Edelgard mourned, though her sorrow was more private than those of her fellow students. The only outward indication of her feelings was her cravat, switched from delicate pink to jet black. Alone, though, in her dormitory with Hubert, she let her true feelings be known. The night after Jeralt’s death, she wore a mask of cold and silent fury, staring unmoving at the flickering flames of the fireplace. Hubert did not know how to respond. Even his loyalty to Edelgard could not coax a compassionate persona out of Hubert.

Their plans had gone awry yet again. Hubert knew they could not control Those Who Slither in the Dark, but he never expected this. Murdering the Captain of the Knights of Seiros on the monastery grounds required more audacity than Hubert thought them capable of. This was his own failure, then, the result of underestimating their enemy. The fact that this murder further complicated their relationship with Byleth simply compounded the failure.

Beside Hubert, Edelgard sucked in her breath through gritted teeth, her first noise in hours.

“I suppose I cannot fume forever,” she murmured as she ran her hands through her hair.

She sat on her bed with her legs curled up beneath her. Her entire figure was curled in on itself, as though she could shield her soft interior from the harsh reality of their world. It did not work, evidently. Beside her, Hubert forced his features into what he imagined was a kind expression.

“My Lady, it pains me to see you in such a state,” he said. “Jeralt’s death has affected you greatly.”

Edelgard shook her head. “My apoplexy is not for Jeralt alone, though I do mourn his loss. I feel this way because I do not know what this means for Byleth and myself.”

“And why would this change anything between the two of you?” Hubert asked. “She is still your professor and mentor, is she not?”

He posed the questions with the innocence of someone who had not following his liege to a clandestine romantic rendezvous. Years of practice in deception made it easy to hide from Edelgard what he had seen.

“We… we kissed at the Goddess Tower,” Edelgard admitted with a blush. “That and more.”

“I see.”

“I am sure you think it foolish, Hubert,” Edelgard continued, “but at the time, it felt inevitable. But now, with Jeralt’s death at the hands of Solon and Monica, I think it a foolish decision myself.”

The very mention of Byleth brought softer emotion to Edelgard’s expression. It smudged the hard lines of anger into something more desperate. Hubert hated how it looked; pleading had no place on the visage of the soon-to-be Emperor. Yet Edelgard stared at Hubert as though he could magic away her poor choices.

There was no limit to what Hubert would do for his Lady, but such a feat was well beyond him. There was no power he knew of that could change the past. He could not protect Edelgard from the consequences of her decisions.

“You are lovers then?” Hubert said, the word stilted on his tongue. “That does complicate matters. Have you divulged any of our plans to her?”

“None, though it pains me so to lie through omission like this,” Edelgard said. “I wish I could tell her everything.”

Alarm shot through Hubert’s veins at that. He stood abruptly to emphasize his next words.

“You cannot tell her anything,” Hubert said. “Not a word.”

“I am aware, Hubert,” Edelgard snapped. “I know what I must do, but I can’t bear to hide so much from her.”

“You have to,” Hubert said simply, “or have you forgotten all that we are striving for? You cannot risk your goals for this woman. If she were to pick the Church over you — a possibility that grows more likely by the second — then our plan will have ended before it even begins.”

“The Church or me. What a choice,” Edelgard said.

She laughed emptily before moving to stand before the fireplace. She cut a stark shadow against the bright flames. Hubert followed her, taking up his position at her side. He watched as she picked up a poker and began to rummage among the burning logs, her motions sending embers flying upwards around them.

“She made a promise to me, that night in the Tower,” Edelgard said at last.

This was news to Hubert, having left before the matter in the Goddess Tower became too intimate for prying eyes. His gaze flickered over to Edelgard. The anger had long been driven from her face. Her expression was somber but neutral, giving away nothing.

“I told her I did not know what the future held, for myself or for her,” Edelgard continued. “In the coming years, she might continue to teach or work for a noble house or even vanish into the life of a mercenary once again. And myself… Well, I simply said I had great obligations that might take me far from her side. We each have our own paths to walk, yet I was so lucky that mine might intersect with hers, if only for this brief moment in time.

“But I am too greedy to be contented with the scraps that fate might toss me. I could not accept that Byleth might disappear from my life forever. So I asked her to promise me this: that in five years, the day of the Millennium Festival, we might reunite. I told her that I did not care if the festival was held or if Garreg Mach had crumbled into the ground. I would still like us to meet, five years from that day, in the Goddess Tower or in its ruins, whatever may remain.

“She promised me that so readily, sealed it with a kiss on my hand. I can still feel the weight of that vow against my knuckles.”

Edelgard flexed her right hand before her, as though it had changed from the contact, as though its motions were now novel to her.

“Do you think,” she said, “she will keep that promise?”

The question was laden with barely-restrained desperation. It dripped from every word Edelgard spoke, making her voice tremble with emotion. Hubert detested it. In the span of a few months, love had weakened his Lady so. The same person who conceived of the plot to overthrow the Church of Seiros, the most powerful institution on the continent, was driven to her knees by some whispered words. If only, Hubert thought, there were some potion I could brew to free you of this burden. But even if such magic existed, Edelgard would never accept it. Such was the cruel design of love, a poison so potent that its victim would refuse a cure. No, Hubert would need to find other means to relieve Edelgard of her concerns.

“I cannot say. Jeralt’s murder has muddied the waters far too much,” he said. “After all that has happened, do you still wish for us to find a way to coax the Professor onto our side?”

“If there is even the slightest possibility, then yes,” Edelgard replied.

“Then I will make it so,” Hubert said.

His mind worked over the various possibilities. The situation, he decided, was still salvageable. Monica and Solon were the ones to blame, those most complicit in the murder of Jeralt Eisner. Indeed all of Those Who Slither were involved, but it was easiest to lay blame on the ones who held the murderous blade. And from what Hubert knew, neither Monica nor Solon were of immense value to their allies. They had their capabilities, but they were merely foot soldiers, weapons to be discarded once their utility had waned. Those Who Slither in the Dark might be stymied by their loss, but it would hardly be cause for a dissolution of their alliance with the Empire.

“We must help the Professor seek revenge,” Hubert said at last. “Killing Monica and Solon could ease the sting of Jeralt’s loss.”

“And what of Thales? I cannot imagine he would look kindly on such an action,” Edelgard countered.

“He will be angry, to be sure,” Hubert agreed. “We will have to find some way to appease him, but I can manage that.”

“Very well, suppose we help Byleth kill Monica and Solon,” Edelgard said. “Then what? She readily agrees to ally with the very group that plotted her father’s death?”

Hubert shook his head. “Certainly not. We will have to tell her of our final betrayal: the destruction of Those Who Slither in the Dark. We will explain that we are merely using them, relying on their advanced magic and weaponry to overthrow the Church, with every intention of turning on them once this war is over. We can even promise her a hand in their destruction.”

“So she need not forgive her father’s killers, merely endure them until the time is ripe for her final revenge,” Edelgard completed. “It is not a sure thing, but certainly a convincing argument.”

“All we must do is plant the seed of revenge in her mind,” Hubert said.

“Then I will tell Byleth of my plan once Monica and Solon are defeated,” Edelgard said. “And I can stop with the endless lies I must spout to her.”

Hubert nodded, though doubt filled his own mind. The chances of winning over Byleth were still slim. He did not know if the promise of revenge, both immediate and deferred, would satisfy Byleth enough that she might take up arms alongside Those Who Slither in the Dark. But that was not a thought he voiced to Edelgard. He could not when the Imperial Princess seemed so buoyed by her hope in this new plan.

In the week after Jeralt’s death, Hubert tried in vain to speak with Byleth. But the professor had sequestered herself in her room, refusing visits from even the Archbishop herself. The Black Eagles were unmoored without their professor. Their classes were led by Manuela, who taught with a more dramatic flair than Byleth ever did. They trained on their own, running through practice sessions that Byleth had planned in the past. But it was a poor approximation of what their professor was capable of.

In the end, it was Ferdinand who managed to coax Byleth out of her room. He offered to spar with her on a daily basis and, to everyone’s surprise, on the tenth day of his badgering, Byleth accepted. After that, Byleth appeared more and more. She resumed her teaching and training duties to the collective relief of the Black Eagles.

She spent more time than before in the captain’s quarters. It was there that Hubert found her, sifting through Jeralt’s old belongings with a solemn expression. The room was dark. Heavy curtains were drawn across the window to blot out any light. The musty smell of disuse had already settled into the space in the few days it had been left empty. Byleth was so wrapped up in her task that she did not look up as Hubert stepped inside. He cleared his throat to draw her attention.

“How are you feeling, Professor?” he asked.

Byleth lifted one eyebrow as she looked up from the diary she was thumbing through. Her wide blue eyes evaluated Hubert in one quick clinical glance.

“It isn’t like you to worry about my well-being,” she said.

“I was, ah, attempting to be compassionate,” Hubert said.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Byleth replied.

Yet again, Hubert’s inadequacy at consolation was in clear view. He did not blame Byleth for this rejection. Such emotional offerings were obviously beyond him. Casting away the condoling expression he had donned for the meeting, Hubert let his face settle into a familiar scowl.

“How about a little logic, instead?” he offered.

“That sounds more like the Hubert I know,” Byleth said, folding her arms. “Go on, then.”

“The Knights of Seiros are currently searching the surroundings for Jeralt’s killers,” Hubert said. “It has left the monastery’s defensive strength depleted as a result. Perhaps this was our enemies’ goal all long.”

Hubert watched for any sign of weakness in Byleth when he mentioned her father’s name, but she did not so much as flinch. Her expression was impassive as she considered what Hubert said.

“Do you think the monastery is in danger?” she asked.

“There is no imminent threat that I can detect,” Hubert admitted, “but the probability of an eventual attack is rather high. It is the logical next step, now that the monastery is unguarded.”

“Then it will be up to us to repel any such attack,” Byleth said. “I… I cannot say I would mind the opportunity.”

That caught Hubert’s attention. He stepped closer to the sapele desk that separated them and placed his hands onto its glossy dark surface. As he leaned over the expanse of wood, his hair fell forward, obscuring his right eye. Despite that he kept his gaze fixed on Byleth, drinking in every minute change in her expression.

“Do you mean to say you desire revenge, Professor?” Hubert asked, letting malice seep into his words like poison.

Byleth stared back at him with an unreadable expression. “Of course I do. Wouldn’t you?”

“Wishing to avenge your father’s death is only human,” Hubert replied, neglecting to mention how little he felt for his own father. Marquis Vestra was slated to be removed from his position once the time came, a part of the plan that Hubert had suggested himself. “We will destroy Monica for what she has done.”

“Monica will be a start,” Byleth said darkly. Then, shaking her head, “but her death is small recompense for what I’ve lost.”

She shut the diary in her hands with a snap and placed it onto the desk. Hubert glanced at it curiously, but the dulled leather cover gave away nothing. He looked back at his professor, who had taken on a faraway gaze. Sensing that he should leave, Hubert stepped back from the table and bowed.

“My condolences,” he said hastily before sweeping out of the room.

He did not wish to linger much longer, not when the conversation had strayed back into mourning. Hubert had no interest in grief. It was useless to him to be so mired in the past. He had to keep marching forward, towards his Lady’s bright future.

Hubert hurried down the stairs and towards the dormitories. He paused outside his door to unlock it when a lankly green-haired figure appeared, leaning against the doorframe.

“I heard a funny rumor,” Linhardt said, “about you and Edelgard.”

“Is that so?” Hubert said.

There was a thunk as he turned his key in the lock. He pushed his door open and stepped inside. Linhardt followed in uninvited, snapping the door shut behind him.

“Yeah, something about rising to the Imperial throne,” Linhardt continued, “toppling the Church of Seiros, and ruling over a united Fodlan.”

Hubert’s blood turned to ice at the casual mention of their well-guarded plan. His hands twitched reflexively, ready to cast a spell. Linhardt noticed the gesture and chuckled.

“Very touchy, are we?” he said. He raised his palms in surrender. “I have no desire to fight. Sounds like a lot of trouble for nothing.”

The reassurance was enough to give Hubert pause. He searched Linhardt’s expression and found the mage looked as weary and disinterested as he always did. This wasn’t the face of someone who had uncovered a treasonous secret, or even one who intended to blackmail. As strange as it seemed, Linhardt did not appear to be a threat. Hubert relaxed slightly. He considered the growing network of Black Eagles who had been informed of their plans. All had been sworn to secrecy, but there had to be loose lips among them. When the answer occurred to him, he huffed in annoyance.

“Caspar,” he said. “He was not meant to tell anyone anything.”

“He didn’t tell anyone else. He took the matter very seriously,” Linhardt said. “But you must have known he would tell me.”

It was obvious now. Of course, Caspar would divulge this life-altering fact to Linhardt, the mage who was glued to his side. Yet Hubert had insisted on speaking to the two of them separately, convinced that they would require far too different means of persuasion for on conversation. He had meant to speak to Linhardt soon, but other aspects of their plan had delayed him. It was only a matter of time, then, before Caspar had taken the issue into his own hands. Hubert sighed. This leak, the consequences of which were yet to be determined, had been his own fault.

“Well you seem to know everything now,” Hubert said. “What will you do?”

“I’m no fool,” Linhardt said. “I know it would it an immense amount of work to against Edelgard. Besides, Caspar has made his choice. I have to follow him.”

That sentiment Hubert understood, though his loyalty for Edelgard was far deeper than what romance could muster. He nodded.

“Very well then,” he said. “Consider the matter settled.”

Linhardt left without much ceremony. Hubert scowled as he watched him go. He would have to speak with Caspar about the importance of state secrets. Still this mistake had not been ruinous. If anything, it had only improved their standing. Hubert was lucky, he reflected, that Linhardt was not a more meddlesome sort.  
Hubert chastised Caspar thoroughly the following day, cornering him on his way to lunch. He did his best to impress upon the blue-haired brawler exactly why this was a terrible thing he’d done, though the positive outcome of the event made him difficult to convince.

“After all, it spared you having to do a whole tea with Linhardt,” Caspar said. “You really should’ve just talked to us at the same time.”

“So I’ve realized,” Hubert said. “But that is no excuse. You shouldn’t have—”

“I haven’t said anything to anyone else, okay?” Caspar insisted. “But there was no way I wasn’t telling Linhardt.”

He crossed his arms and set his jaw stubbornly. He must have picked up the expression from Ferdinand, who routinely adopted the posture in his arguments with Hubert. Suddenly annoyed, Hubert threw his hands up.

“Very well, what do I care! It is only our lives that hang in the balance,” he said.

“I knew you’d get it,” Caspar said cheerily. “Now come on, let’s get lunch.”

And so Hubert found himself dragged along to the dining hall. He would have protested more strongly, but he decided he might as well eat and perhaps use the time to reemphasize to Caspar how important secrecy was. When they entered, the dining hall was bustling. But there were a few spare seats at the table with their classmates, which Caspar and Hubert hurried over to with their food. They joined Ferdinand and Dorothea, who did not usually dine together. But something had recently changed between the two of them. Hubert had noticed Dorothea become kinder to Ferdinand, less prone to sharp comments than before.

The thought made Hubert’s chest twinge uncomfortably, but he pushed the feeling away. It was only natural for their classmates to grow closer, especially in the face of a tragedy. There was no reason for him to feel oddly about it. He ignored the feeling as the group began to talk, their conversation inevitably leading back to Jeralt and his sudden death.

“It happened right in front of us,” Dorothea murmured, “and there was nothing we could do about it.”

Her face was worn with sadness. It pooled under her eyes and dragged down the corners of her mouth, weighing down her lovely features until they drooped. Still, she was immaculately maintained, each strand of her hair shining and in place, her hat atop her head at the perfect angle. She did not let grief overrun her life.

“Even the Professor could not stop it,” Hubert pointed out. “I doubt there is anything we could do.”

“That’s true. And the Professor is probably one of the strongest people we know,” Caspar said. “And Jeralt… his strength was legendary.”

“Despite what the operas might tell you, not even legendary strength is enough to ward off death,” Dorothea said. “I’ve sung about the deaths of heroes so many times. But for it to happen in real life is… I feel truly lost.”

Hubert shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It seemed the grief surrounding Jeralt’s death was inescapable. He picked at his meal, hoping that the topic would run its course quickly. He was incapable of commiserating with his classmates. How could he, when his own alliances had led to this? And even if it hadn’t, since when had Hubert been one to offer a shoulder to cry on? But he was offered an unexpected reprieve by Ferdinand.

“I know we are all still coping with this loss, but we must focus on the practical implications of this,” Ferdinand said. “Someone close to us has been killed. That means none of us are safe.”

Hubert felt an unfamiliar rush of gratitude towards Ferdinand. The two of them may not see eye to eye, but at least the latter had his head in the right place. The logical concerns of Jeralt’s death were far more pressing than this strange communal mourning that their classmates had begun. He nodded in agreement. Ferdinand caught the motion and quirked his lips upward in return.

“Oh Ferdie, don’t let Petra hear you start with that again,” Dorothea chided. “She’s not going back to Brigid. She is determined to finish her education here.”

“I did not mean to pressure her to return to Brigid,” Ferdinand said, running a hand through his bangs. “I only mean, the monastery is not as safe as we thought. We must be vigilant and in this moment, grief only serves to blind us.”

“I agree. The Knights of Seiros have left the monastery bereft of its defenses,” Hubert chimed in, eager to continue this line of thinking. “Only the professors and the students remain.”

“Then we’ll have to fight!” Caspar said. “I’m ready to fend off any attack that might come. I’ve been putting in extra hours at the training grounds ever since… well, you know.”

“I hope we are strong enough,” Ferdinand said. “Surely, with the Professor’s guidance, we could repel any would-be invaders.”

“I suppose that is the Archbishop’s thinking as well: that the Professor, despite her state, will be capable of fighting,” Hubert said.

“If our training sessions are anything to go by, the Professor doing well,” Ferdinand countered. “She is as formidable as ever. I cannot get close to her with a lance.”

“The Professor is strong, both in body and in mind, to be working again so soon after her father’s passing,” Dorothea said.

“I’m gonna follow her example and stop dwelling on the past,” Caspar said. “I have to keep pushing forward and getting stronger. I can’t be distracted!”

“Yes, this is exactly what I hoped you would say,” Ferdinand agreed heartily. “We must continue our efforts, undeterred by the actions of our enemies.”

They fell into chatter about their training routines, a topic Hubert was happy to ignore. He spoke with Dorothea about her magic instead. The sorceress had recently learned to cast Thoron without the aid of a tome, making her a formidable addition to the battlefield. Hubert had great plans for one as capable as Dorothea.

But as the meal dwindled to a close, Hubert shifted his attention back to Ferdinand. The redhead, thoroughly pleased by his plans with Caspar, rose from his seat and dusted off his uniform. He was about to leave the table when Hubert caught his eye.

“A moment of your time, Ferdinand?”

“Yes, what is it, Hubert?”

“Lady Edelgard has requested that you join us for tea tomorrow afternoon,” Hubert said.

“Ah, is she hoping for my advice on some topic?” Ferdinand asked.

That brash assumption irritated Hubert less than it normally would as he was still feeling kindly towards Ferdinand for steering their earlier conversation out of treacherous water. Hubert caught his reflexive retort in the back of his throat and raised his brows instead.

“Something like that,” he said. “Can you attend?”

Ferdinand noticed Hubert straying from their usual pattern, but did not react beyond a flash of confusion in his orange eyes. But that was rapidly replaced by his usual cheer.

“Certainly. I have never been one to turn down a nice tea,” Ferdinand replied.

He flashed a broad smile before leaving the dining hall. The matter settled, Hubert excused himself from the meal and returned to his dorm. But Ferdinand’s bright expression lingered in his mind as he worked. He had grown accustomed to having Ferdinand at his side, at least on the battlefield. Tomorrow, Hubert would know whether to excise Ferdinand from his life with surgical precision or welcome him into the fold.

Preparing for the tea took an inordinate amount of Hubert’s time. He was determined to get the setting exactly right, so there was nothing for Ferdinand to correct insufferably when he arrived. He set out fine porcelain cups and dishes, each rimmed with shining bands of gold and red. He chose the Hresvelg blend as their drink of choice, one of the few teas Hubert could tolerate. He thought the heady aroma of a tea favored by the Emperor himself might remind Ferdinand of his Imperial obligations. He arranged a tray with pastries, sweet jam-filled ones for Edelgard and a few of meaty ones he had once seen Ferdinand enjoying. He procured a few seasonal blooms from the greenhouse and arranged them in a vase. This last bit wasn’t for Ferdinand’s benefit. Hubert had kept fresh flowers in Edelgard’s dormitory ever since she mentioned finding the space gloomy.

Winning over Ferdinand was of strategic importance to their plan. They had Count Hevring and Count Bergliez in their pocket, but Duke Aegir was beyond them. The Duke had helped lead the Insurrection of the Seven. There was no way he would fall in line behind Edelgard now. No, Hubert had plans to eliminate the Duke once the time came. Having the heir to the Aegir house on their side would help smooth any ruffled feathers when Edelgard took power. It would make the whole affair look more like a peaceful transition from old to new.

Though he had been resistant to Ferdinand at first, Hubert found himself concerned about whether Ferdinand would join them. He had come to rely on Ferdinand, at least on the battlefield. But it was hard to compartmentalize that sort of feeling and it had bled into their everyday lives, until Hubert found himself tolerating and even, at times, appreciating Ferdinand’s company. For all this braggadocio, Ferdinand had a keen mind and the occasional shrewd observation. And while Hubert found him too emotional, his capacity for feeling allowed him to connect with others in a way that Hubert could not. It was a unique skill and one that Hubert would gladly harness for the Empire.

Edelgard watched as Hubert flitted about from task to task. She prepared the tea herself, well-practiced in brewing this particular blend herself. The tea had just finished steeping when there was a sharp rap at the door. Hubert let Ferdinand in with a curt nod before reclaiming his seat beside Edelgard.

The biting cold outside had left Ferdinand’s nose and cheeks a wind-chapped red. His hair had been blown out of face, pushed up and away from his forehead. He looked curiously from Edelgard to Hubert. Unable to tolerate the open expression on his face, Hubert hurried to pour them tea.

“A classic choice, Edelgard,” Ferdinand commended before taking a sip. “And brewed perfectly as well.”

“I am grateful to hear that from someone as well-versed in the art of tea-making as yourself,” Edelgard said.

She took a sip of her own tea and placed a pastry onto her plate. Ferdinand mirrored her, taking a moment to decide before eventually settling on a savory one for himself.

“You are flattering me,” Ferdinand said, as though it were not clearly working. “Whatever is the purpose? I have said many times before, I am happy to advise you.”

“It you do not mind, allow me to flatter you further,” Edelgard said. “You are unparalleled as a cavalier and as a general. I’ve seen how easy it is for you to inspire your troops. Besides that, you have a discerning eye. You were the first to recognize Bernadetta’s capabilities. Your abilities have caught my eye, Ferdinand.”

The compliments disarmed Ferdinand completely. He looked slightly dumbstruck: his eyes were wide, his brows raised in disbelief, his mouth slack in incomprehension. He looked to Hubert for answers, who only gave a minute nod to confirm all that Edelgard had said. That made Ferdinand smile, the same bright toothy grin he had flashed at Hubert the day before.

“Well! I knew that you would see my value one day,” he said. “I am glad that day has come.”

“Do you wish to put your abilities to use for the Empire?” Edelgard asked.

“That has always been my goal,” Ferdinand replied easily.

“Very good. Then, know that I what I tell you next requires the utmost secrecy,” Edelgard said. “To speak of it with anyone else would be treason against the Empire itself.”

“I give you my word. I will not mention this to anyone,” Ferdinand said. “What is going on?”

“I intend to take the throne soon, sooner than may have been originally anticipated. But I do so out of a dire need,” Edelgard began. “There is injustice in Fodlan and it grows worse by the day. You yourself have seen the havoc wreaked by Crests. People born without Crests are condemned to a life of obscurity, no matter what abilities they may possess. Meanwhile, those with Crests are forced to marry and reproduce, to pass on weakening bloodlines, without any regard for whether they are qualified to lead. Crests are to blame for this brutal, irrational world we live in.”

“But Crests give you power,” Ferdinand interrupted. “It is only natural that those with power should lead.”

“Do you not remember Miklan and his end?” Edelgard countered. “He was a skilled leader. He could have been a general himself, given the ease with which he rallied those ruffians to work for his cause. Yet he was cast aside for his brother, a man so eager to shirk his duties that he came running to us.”

“That is not fair. Sylvain—”

“Is only another victim of this cruel system. You should know better than anyone else how the existing system has tortured him.”

“Yes, I am perfectly aware,” Ferdinand said. “But I do not understand what this has to do with your ascension to the throne. What can you hope to do about this?”

“Crests are only the beginning,” Edelgard said. “The system of Crests and bloodlines is inextricably linked to nobility. The obsession with marrying and producing heirs and seizing is at the forefront of nobles’ minds to such an extent that they abandon their obligation. How much land in the Empire has been woefully mismanaged by indolent nobles?”

That made Ferdinand flush an ugly, blotched red. His own father was one of those nobles. It was an open secret that Hrym had been intentionally neglected under Duke Aegir’s reign. Yet there had been no one to stop it. After the Insurrection of the Seven, not even the Emperor had the power to thwart the Duke in his own dukedom. And so the people had languished under his rule.

“You need not remind me of my father’s failures,” Ferdinand said, his brow heavy with the weight of his inheritance. “I am all too aware of him and his ilk, the nobles who fail to meet the duties of their station. I have every intention of correcting my father’s mistakes after I graduate.”

“But it’s not just your father, or even a handful of people. What I speak of is systemic,” Edelgard argued. “It is inherent to the very structure of nobility. A hierarchy based on bloodlines would always require a helpless lower class to subjugate. It was a means to keep humanity weak and fractured, so that we might not question why such a system was put in place.”

“You make it sound like this is someone’s grand design,” Ferdinand said.

Edelgard laughed, a harsh joyless sound. “That’s just the thing, Ferdinand. It is. At the root of all of this lies the Church of Seiros. They are the ones who have been pulling the strings this whole time.”

“The Church? The very one that has been a stabilizing force on this continent for a thousand years?”

Ferdinand’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his hair. His mouth was quirked upwards but mirthless, as though he were hearing a particularly long-winded joke. Ferdinand glanced between Edelgard and Hubert, waiting for the punchline. None came. He let out a disbelieving scoff.

“The Church acts with benevolence, but its true intentions are shadowy,” Edelgard said. “Its leaders are not human.”

“I beg your pardon?” Ferdinand spluttered.

“They aren’t,” Edelgard repeated. “They are strange and powerful creatures with lifespans that far exceed us. They are led by a beast called The Immaculate One.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Ferdinand said. “I am not exactly pious, but to claim such a thing is…heretical, to say the least.”

Edelgard leaned back in her chair with a sigh. She paused for a moment as decided what to say next. Across the table, Ferdinand watched warily, as though he feared what strange claims she might make next.

“I understand this might come as a shock,” Edelgard said, “but I have seen the proof of this with my own eyes. These creatures posed as gods in order to subjugate humanity. They created the system of Crests and nobility to distract us from their machinations. We have been so wrapped up in our internal squabbles that we never thought to question the Church itself.”

Ferdinand looked to Hubert. “I suppose you believe this?”

“Wholeheartedly,” Hubert said. “Even if you do not, can you deny the problems with Crests and nobility? Whether they be human or something else altogether, it is true that they have neglected the people of Fodlan. We have been languishing for a millennium while they have watched and done nothing. They have willfully prevented human progress.”

“That is a bold accusation,” Ferdinand said.

“That, I can prove easily,” Hubert replied. “I have uncovered evidence that the Church banned the production of metal-hold printing machines, which would bring educational material to the masses, because it would loosen their hold on the circulation of knowledge. They have forbidden human autopsies, though it could advance the medical field, simply because it would lessen our reliance on their faith-based white magic.”

He reached into his coat and tossed an envelope onto the table. It was a particularly damning piece of paper, procured and hand-delivered to Hubert by his spy among the Garreg Mach servants. The man had slipped into Seteth’s office and squirreled away a few of the Church’s most confidential reports. Hubert smirked. It had been all too easy. By the time Seteth noticed the reports were gone, Hubert would be marching on Garreg Mach with the entirety of the Imperial Army.

As he read the paper, Ferdinand’s face drained of all color. He was tightlipped and ashen when he looked up.

“The list goes on,” Ferdinand said. “The Church… has it really been working against us all this time?”

“We have been manipulated for far too long,” Edelgard said, “and I intend to change things. Under my rule, I will unearth the roots of the Church and topple it. I will establish a new world order, free of the Church and its hierarchy of blood.”

“Even if everything you have said about the Church is true, what you are saying is insanity,” Ferdinand insisted. “What you are saying would lead to war.”  
“That is the idea. There is no world in which the Church would cede power peacefully. And I can only expect that the Kingdom will rush to its defense,” Edelgard said. “But some injustice can be so grave that it necessitates military action. I am speaking of a revolution, Ferdinand, to return power to the hands of the people.”

“You would even start a war with the Kingdom?” Ferdinand asked. “You spoke as though you cared about Sylvain only moments ago, and now, you are ready to attack his people. I understand that the Kingdom has stronger ties to the Church than Adrestia, but surely we could arrive at a diplomatic solution. We could publish a treatise with your claims, or formally censure the Church, or—”

“Those are all half-measures,” Edelgard said. “It will not effect the change I wish to see, not fast enough.”

“Countless lives will be lost. Is gradual change really so bad, that it is worth that kind of bloodshed?”

“Countless lives are already lost, every day, under the rule of the Church. People die in poverty without the opportunity to rise out of it. Nobles ignore the plight of their citizens without consequence. The Church chooses not to step in. Each day, humans are stripped of their agency by these mysterious creatures.

“Edelgard, I agree that the current system is flawed. And it is true that the Church has turned a blind eye to even the most heinous of nobles, unless they threaten the teachings of Seiros. Yet, I cannot agree with your methods. There has to be another way.”

“There is not,” Edelgard said. “We have remained oppressed and downtrodden for too long. The only option is revolution.”

“You two are hell-bent on doing this,” Ferdinand said, “that much is obvious to me. I only wish you had involved me in this sooner. Perhaps I could have advised you differently.”

“If you agree with my goals, then join me,” Edelgard said. “And if my methods displease you, advise me moving forward. You can choose to be a part of this.”

Hubert could see the indecision in Ferdinand. His fingers drummed anxiously on the tabletop. His tea had cooled to an undrinkable temperature and lay ignored beside him. Ferdinand squeezed his eyes shut. Hubert felt his heart begin to beat a little faster. This was how it would end, then, their tenuous partnership.

“You are asking me to turn a back on everything I hold dear,” Ferdinand said. “You want me to abandon my noble obligation, my people, to help you in your heedless conquest.”

The realization that Ferdinand might not join them sent a pang of loss through Hubert. He had not expected to care, and yet, with the possibility before him, he could not bear the thought. Hubert cleared his throat, intent on intervening. He could feel the burn of Ferdinand’s gaze upon him.

“If you care about your people, you will join us,” Hubert said. “This is your opportunity to prove yourself. Show that you are not concerned with the trappings of nobility, but the wellbeing of all humankind. Help the people of Aegir, and of the Empire, and of all of Fodlan — if you think you can.”

The challenge rang out in the empty room. Despite his practiced nonchalance, Hubert could feel his own nervousness rising. He met Ferdinand’s eyes with something akin to a plea, though he could not name it as such. He would never admit to wanting this. But he knew, in that moment, that he wanted to Ferdinand to agree. Let us be partners in this cause, he wanted to say. But the words died in his throat.

“Well? What say you, Ferdinand?” Edelgard said.

“I…” Ferdinand began but his voice broke, a dissonant crack in his words. He huffed and shook his head before trying again. “I will join, Edelgard, if only because it is evident how badly you need my advising. It is clear to me that the Aegir house will fall, whether or not I join you. But perhaps, this is the way for me to rebuild it.”  
Hubert let out a breath he did not know he was holding.

“I am glad to have you in our ranks,” Edelgard said.

“I must say again, I do not think this wise,” Ferdinand said. “There are already enemies circling the monastery. Now, we must make enemies of the Church as well.”  
“Indeed, the Church will not look kindly on us for our audacity,” Edelgard said. “But we will have one another to rely on. This is not a battle any one of us must fight on our own.”

“I have been grieving all this time and now I see that must continue,” Ferdinand said. “I will have to mourn the loss of so many things I hold dear: the faith that raised me, the nobility that trained me, even the name that has always marked me.”

His words were steeped in anguish. It was no small thing for this lover of nobility to turn his back on his old life.

“Mourn as you need to, though I cannot empathize,” Edelgard said. “I am too eager to see a just dawn in Fodlan. I will not cry with you at the loss of this world, but I promise to reach out my hand when it comes time to build a new one.”

Ferdinand took a shuddering breath and nodded. “There is much work to be done. We should begin.”

In the days that followed, Hubert kept a closer eye on Ferdinand, vigilant for any sign of treachery. But Ferdinand went about his business much as he usually would. He attended his courses and was diligent in his training. He took tea with his classmates. He kept up with his correspondence — all benign and familiar — with great care. The only notable aspect of his habits was how much time he spent with Byleth. The two sparred every other day and had tea the days they didn’t. Ever since Byleth had emerged from her mourning, the two had become quite close. It would be something for Hubert to keep an eye on, to be sure.

The last night of the month, Hubert was quietly doing his schoolwork when Edelgard burst into his room.

“A Church scout has located Monica and Solon. We need to tell the Professor,” she said in one breath.

With a nod, Hubert was up and gathering the rest of the Black Eagles. They thundered down the steps to Byleth’s room, Edelgard at their forefront. She rapped on Byleth’s door. There was a pause and then the door opened and Byleth poked out her head. Despite the late hour, she was still dressed and alert.

“What’s going on?” she asked, taking in her students who were dressed for battle.

“I know where Monica and Solon are,” Edelgard said. “In the Sealed Forest, mere moments from the monastery. The archbishop is gathering soldiers for a search, but she did not want you to know.”

The mention of Jeralt’s killers made Byleth’s blue eyes turn a shade darker. She scowled as she stepped outside.

“Why is she hiding it?” Byleth asked.

“No doubt she believes revenge will compel you to seek the killers out yourself,” Hubert said.

“Give us the order, Professor,” Edelgard said, gesturing to the Black Eagles arranged behind her. “We can move out as soon as you give the word.”

“Absolutely not!”

The thunderous voice of Rhea rang out. Hubert wheeled around to see her striding towards Byleth’s door, Seteth trailing behind her. The Black Eagles parted to make way for them. The two green-haired figures closed in on Byleth, entreating her to stay.

“Our knights are otherwise occupied,” Seteth said. “And our foes are likely here to lure you out. You cannot let your emotions dictate your decisions.”

“I’m going with or without your permission,” Byleth said.

“Please, Professor,” Rhea interject. She placed a staying hand on Byleth, which was shrugged off. “Do not act carelessly. I will not lose you too.”

Edelgard shouldered her way into the conversation to stand beside Byleth. She took Byleth’s hand, a gesture that did not escape Rhea. Her green brows drew ever so closer together as she noticed. But she did not say a word.

“Lady Rhea, our professor is not acting rashly,” Edelgard insisted. “This is strategic move. You cannot send out Seteth or the remaining knights for fear of leaving the monastery unguarded. Besides, the Professor has a Hero’s Relic. No one is more powerful than her. And she will have us beside her.”

At their mention, the Black Eagles stood a little taller. Rhea’s eyes flickered over to the students, as though she could discern their abilities by looking at them. She glanced back at Byleth and something softened in her gaze.

“Very well,” she said. “I will give you the order. Destroy the enemy that is hiding in the Sealed Forest. You have the protection of the goddess on your side. Whatever happens, you shall overcome.”

Edelgard lifted Byleth’s hand with her own. “Let’s go, my teacher.”

The Sealed Forest was a dense maze of dark-wooded trees and twisting vines. A low fog cast a haze over the land. In the silence of the night, every footstep seemed thunderous, every crack of a stick sending alarm through their group. The Black Eagles trekked onward, ears perked for the any noise not made by their own. A distant flash of light punctuated the darkness: a spell being cast in the clearing ahead. Byleth put up a hand to stop the Black Eagles in their tracks. She splayed her fingers before pointing ahead, their symbol for enemies nearby. Hubert braced himself. Byleth made a fist — ready your weapons — then nodded and they were crashing through the brush and into the clearing.

The clearing was manmade, an enormous stone platform hemmed by four massive marble columns. Their enemies had clearly prepared for their arrival. Dark mages stood at the ready, hands already glowing with magic. A small contingent of archers stood at the back with their arrows nocked. In the center of the platform were two figures: Monica, with her simpering smile still plastered onto her face, and Solon, grotesque and pale as ever. At the sight of them, Monica’s grin turned vicious.

“So, you’ve come to the forest of death,” she purred. “In return for your trouble, I’ll show you my true form.”

With a snap, she was swallowed by dark flames. The Officer’s academy uniform and maroon hair burnt away in a flash. She emerged from the fire swathed in black assassins robes and a black blade in her hand. Her hair was an electric orange that glowed inhumanly against her bone-white pallor. Her left eye was ringed with black markings, a sign of her kind.

“My name is Kronya,” she said, slashing the sword in the empty air before her. “And now that you’ve come here, I’ll make sure you never leave.”

Byleth growled and drew the Sword of the Creator. It seemed to come to life in her hands, casting her in a vermillion glow.

“Black Eagles, take out the surrounding soldiers,” Byleth called out. “But leave those two to me.”

The dark mages were formidable, but they were no match for Hubert. He raced forward and caught one in the throat with a blast of Miasma. The mage reeled backward but easily shook off the dark energy. His resilience was too strong for him to be felled by that. But it was no matter. As soon as the mage righted himself, Ferdinand was there, impaling him on his lance. The pair of them had gotten better at working in tandem like that, tacitly appearing when the other needed him.

An arrow whizzed past Hubert, narrowly missing his cheek. With a curse on his lips, Hubert wheeled around, throwing Banshee in the direction the attack had come from. But the archer was quicker than him. He dodged the blast, nocked another arrow, and aimed for Hubert’s heart.

“Watch out!”

Ferdinand yanked his steed into the path of the arrow, deflecting it with a sword. He turned back to Hubert and opened his mouth to say something. But a flurry of movement caught Hubert’s eye. The archer had drawn a dagger and was sprinting towards them at full tilt. It was no matter. With a wicked grin, Hubert send a burst of Death in his direction. The weight of the spell knocked the archer back several feet. He hit the platform with a mighty crack and lay unmoving.

“Watch out,” Hubert repeated to Ferdinand, the grin still dancing on his face.

“If I did not know better, I would think you were enjoying yourself,” Ferdinand chided, though there was no heat in it.

Hubert chuckled darkly as he surveyed the battlefield. With a bright spark of Thoron, Dorothea felled the final archer. A hush fell over the clearing as the Black Eagles all realized that Monica and Solon were cornered. Yet the pair did not look concerned. Monica stepped forward with a toss of her head, flicking her orange hair out of her eyes. She licked her lips in anticipation.

“So… who’s ready to die first?” she asked.

“The only ones dying tonight are the two of you,” Byleth said.

She stepped forward and wiped a streak of blood off of her cheek. Her eyes were hard chips of flint. She looked blank as she approached Monica. Hubert felt a shiver of anticipation; the Ashen Demon finally emerged.

The two women considered each other for the moment, swords drawn. Then, quick as a blink, Kronya struck. With a crash her black blade collided with Byleth’s. They strained for a moment, locked together and both battling for dominance, before leaping apart.

The Black Eagles retreated to the edges of the platform, watching the women circle each other.

“Should we… should we help?” Dorothea wondered aloud.

“She’s mine!” Byleth called over her shoulder.

With a flick of her wrist she extended the Sword the Creator. It whipped through the air and caught Kronya on the shoulder, sending her flying. Byleth raced forward, pushing her advantage. She flicked again and slashed across Kronya’s chest. Kronya cried out and but brought up her sword in time to dampen the blow. She stumbled backwards.

“Solon! Don’t stand there and stare. I need your help!” she snapped.

The dark bishop chuckled deeply. “Yes, you most certainly do.”

With a flourish, he traced a burning sigil in the air. For a moment there was nothing. Byleth extended her sword once more and began to encroach on Solon and Kronya. But before she could get close, a dark spike emerged from the air and impaled Kronya. It punched through her chest with tremendous force, shooting blood and viscera in every direction. Black flames swallowed Kronya’s figure. Her screams echoed through the clearing. The flames spread furiously, swallowing the edges of the platforms and the four columns. The heat pushed the Black Eagles further back, though they hovered as close as they could bear. Byleth stepped back but quickly realized she was surrounded by the flames.

“It is time to unleash the Forbidden Spell of Zahras!” Solon cried.

He jerked his hand back. With the motion, the spike that drove through Kronya yanked out, bringing her heart with it. He closed his hand into a fist and the heart was crushed. Darkness consumed Byleth and Kronya. There was a flash of blackness.

Then, slowly, vision returned. Hubert blinked rapidly to clear his eyes. The platform swam into view, but Solon was alone. Byleth, Kronya, the Sword of the Creator, all had disappeared.

“Begone with you… Fell Star,” Solon muttered.

“What happened to our professor?” Edelgard cried, rushing forward.

Hubert ran after her, desperate to provide cover. It seemed the Professor was indisposed, to say the least. It was up to him to protect Edelgard. The rest of the Black Eagles seemed to have the same thought, as they surged forward with him.

“She was swallowed by the mystical darkness of a forbidden spell,” Solon cried. “An eternity wandering in a void of darkness, never to return to this world!”

“You’re lying! Byleth is alive and I know it!” Caspar insisted.

“It is hard to believe she would fall in a place like this,” Hubert admitted.

“She may not be dead yet, but she will be,” Solon promised. “She will drift through the darkness with no chance to escape, overwhelmed with hopelessness. It will be torturous.”  
“If you did something to the Professor,” Edelgard said, “you will regret it.”

She drew her axe and encroached upon Solon.

“I have to agree with her this once,” Ferdinand added, his lance aloft. “Even if the Professor is trapped in darkness, that is not the end of her story.”

Solon’s face crumpled in anger. His pale eyes flickered over the Black Eagles once and growled low in his throat.

“I will not forgive such arrogance,” he said. “If you prefer it so, you shall also be added to the ranks of the dead!”

But before he could attack, there was a terrific ripping sound. Hubert watched, agape, as a golden fissure appeared in the sky. The Sword of the Creator carved a rent in the air and out stepped Byleth. Or rather, someone who looked nearly like Byleth. It was their Professor, to be sure, but her hair and eyes had transformed. They were no longer the deep midnight blue, but an ethereal mint green.

“Professor! Is that you?” Edelgard cried.

Byleth smiled at the sound of Edelgard’s voice and nodded. She flicked the Sword of the Creator, extending it to its full length.

“What did you see in the darkness of Zahras?” Solon cried. “It should have been impossible. The only being that can withstand the darkness is… Unless I dispose of you myself, I may never have the chance to send you back there!”

He shot a dark spell towards Byleth. But this new Byleth was fast, inhumanely so. She dodged the blow and sprinted forward, the Sword of the Creator extended behind her. With a mighty heavy, she brought the sword down onto Solon. He screamed — a terrible, hair-raising sound — and fell.

Solon was defeated, and so easily by this new version of their professor. Just what had happened to her in the darkness? The Black Eagles converged onto their professor, lips buzzing with questions. Byleth turned to answer, but before she could, the Sword of the Creator slipped from grasp. Her eyes drooped shut and she fell backwards into Edelgard’s arms.


End file.
